A Study in Slime Revisited
by JessamyGriffith
Summary: A steampunk AU with cephalopod elements, this continues LaClarity's "Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts." Dr. Watson has returned from the war with a clockwork heart, and finds himself with a strange flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, who is more than he appears
1. A Final Twist of the Key

**A Study in Slime Revisited**

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime,_ by LaClarity at Wordpress

With respect, I loved LaClarity's fanfic so much, I could not help myself but had to see how I would continue the story myself.

For those who do not want to search up Smoke Hearts and pre-read it, the story synopsis from LaClarity:

_A retired army surgeon, Dr. Watson was down on his luck. Invalided back from Afghanistan with a new clockwork heart, he was living above a whorehouse, eking out his scanty pension by running errands for a crooked former colleague. He had the good fortune to meet a young man who was prepared to go halves with him on better accommodations. His circumstances were improved, but he found himself a slave to an obsession with his mysterious new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He got the chance to discover exactly Holmes' profession was when they were called out to a scene of a crime by Inspector Hopkins. A young woman was found battered to death at the scene of a London Underground rave. Holmes took samples, before being removed by a very hostile Inspector Lestrade. Back at Baker Street, he revealed his stunning new method of crime detection, based upon scientific identification and logic. Impressed with his courage at the crime scene, Holmes offered Watson a share in his work, in return for a much-needed resource… affection._

_To positively identify the sources of his sample, Holmes had to infiltrate Scotland Yard under Lestrade's nose in order to consult a list of known criminals. Dressed as a bobby, he dragged a furious Watson along 'under arrest.' Under the strain of the pretence, Watson tried to take his revenge by kissing Holmes, only to be rejected with Holmes' cold reminder that his affection would be paid for after their work was done. At Scotland Yard, Hopkins and Holmes identified one of the samples as being from a convicted art thief and raver-pirate, Thorpe. Confronting Thorpe at his residence, the thief bolted, and Watson gave chase by foot and a 6 foot tall-bicycle. He crashed onto Thorpe, and lost consciousness._

_Waking back at Baker Street and feeling extremely unwell, Watson had the uneasy feeling that Holmes had had four hands to tend him, but only saw two upon opening his eyes. A needle and a bottle of anti-rejection drug roused his curiosity, but Holmes deflected his questions by kissing him. Utterly confused, Watson quarrelled with Holmes, accusing his flatmate of using Watson's feelings in order to manipulate him. Holmes argued that he had offered Watson a partnership not merely for physical intimacy or even love, but because each complimented the other; Holmes is a natural leader, Watson a follower. Watson was lonely and depressed enough to be tempted, even knowing that Holmes would not always be honest or explain things fully to him. However, he held firm, and after one last provoking attempt by Holmes to gain Watson's unquestioning acquiescence, Watson physically confronted him, only to have his clockwork heart wind down unexpectedly. As he collapsed, Holmes caught him, and Watson finally saw what Holmes had been attempting to hide from him – cephalopod arms. The original story ends with Watson fainting in utter horror. We rejoin our heroes at this most inauspicious moment._

**Part 1**

_* In Which An Unnatural Device is Broken * A Hero Falls * A Solemn Promise is Give_n *

It was a nightmare, and I could not awaken.

Through the blackness swirling about me, there came the impression of hasty motion. I was laid back swiftly upon a hard surface by many hands –_not hands _– I shuddered - _not all hands_. A voice called my name, sounding increasingly frantic, the timbre of the voice rising.

"Doctor! _Doctor_! Your key has been wound, there's no need for this… Watson, will you listen?"

I couldn't reply. A wheezing sound rasped from my throat, as natural reflexes tried to force me to breathe. A hand rested on my forehead and lifted an eyelid to check the pupil. Another cupped the side of my face, in a way that would have wrung my heart to pieces had it been capable of feeling. A cold limb curled about a wrist, checking the pulse, while another moved quickly over my chest, tapping, leaving damp spots I felt dimly through my shirt front. Darkness pressed upon me, and I felt myself slipping away, as if sinking slowly through the floor.

_Ah. So this is when that Jezail bullet finally completes its work. Thank God. _

My head felt stuffed with cotton wool. Holmes continued speaking through the dull ringing in my ears, an edge in his voice. Anger? Fear? Does such a creature feel fear?

"Watson, I believe there has been a malfunction. The homeostatic device should have resumed the functions of your heart upon its reaching a resting state after your exertions… Damnation! Why does the spring unwind that way? There must be a slippage… Watson. Watson! I am going to attempt to manipulate your chest manually in order to keep the mechanism's valves pumping. It should be enough. Mrs. Hudson! _Mrs. Hudson_!"

Terror and overwhelming pain stifled me. I had not thought it was possible to feel any worse, but the pressure on my chest was now beyond agonizing, even through the grey mists in my mind. It felt as if Holmes was crushing my lungs. Something moved under my shoulder blade, and the key was forcibly ground round in its socket with unnatural strength, making my mechanical heart beat. Again. Another twist. And again. But then it fell silent.

"Watson, breathe. No, my good man, you cannot leave just yet; there's still work to be done. I've seen your worth, and… Watson… will you just… take a breath, please. Just… MRS. HUDSON! Please, fetch help immediately! Wire Inspector Hopkins… anyone!"

Light footsteps hurried into the room and stumbled to a stop. There was a stifled scream, and the steps hastily fled downstairs.

Almost, I could suppose the note of concern in that voice was genuine. It sounded quite hoarse. Almost my traitorous broken heart roused itself to believe - but Holmes had deceived me. He had asked me to take him – as a partner, as a friend - without disclosing his own abominable secret. Holmes was not human, any more than I. Sweet Christ - the horror of it! The disaster of Maiwand was nothing to this betrayal, Murray even less. The roaring in my ears grew louder, the numbness in my arm and chest spreading. The key was forced round again and deep within my chest there came a tiny distinct snap, as my poor mangled heart was broken for the last time. Holmes cursed as I spasmed in his unnatural grasp. All sensations were falling away, and I found I could not bring myself to care. In his power I might be, but not even the great detective could force my soul to submit to staying, when it was apparent my body was beyond containing it.

Fingers abruptly pinched my nose, and cool lips fastened over mine, forcing my mouth open. Air from Holmes' own lungs filled mine, and was pushed out again with a damp squeeze around the whole of my chest. Again his mouth covered mine, with a more ardent urgency then he had shown in any of his earlier kisses. The key in my back twisted again with a strangely wet click and warmth began to run from the socket and trickle down my spine. The key turned again, maintaining my heart's beat. My eyes slitted open, and through a maelstrom of colours I could see Holmes' face, grey and pinched. With the little air I had remaining in my lungs I gasped out, "You monste... "

But his mouth swooped down and captured mine again, forcing life into me. And the key turned, pinning me to my body as effectively as a butterfly to a collector's board.

"A monster I may be, Watson, but I have told you – I require you. You cannot – I will not _let _you – You are needed. Stay."

I convulsed again, head flung back. His mouth followed mine down, and his lips moved almost noiselessly against mine, shaping a word. "Please," he breathed as though the word were forced from him. His breath filled me again, and I was caught. Holmes' indomitable will had prevailed. There was no question that he would let me leave, not while he had two hands – or was it four? - _hideous, unnatural!_ - to keep me. I gasped for air, shuddered again, but could not tell whether it was in relief at his words or revulsion at the inhuman, cool touch of his extra appendages. My eyes slid shut again in acquiescence to the inevitable, and the darkness washed up and over me. As my consciousness began to slip under, a horrified shout followed me down, "Watson, _no_... !"

* * *

><p>The roar of gunfire reverberated back from the walls of the ravine behind me, interspersed with the crack and whine of rifle fire ahead and to the left. A cavalry horse, riderless, lathered with sweat and streaming blood from a gash on its shoulder galloped past in white-eyed panic, whinnying. Every few moments, a huge deafening blast would obliterate the scene, as Ayub Khan's fiendish artillery produced a pitiless barrage. Through it, there came the screams of men. I wiped streaming sweat from my forehead and ducked down as another shell arced down and exploded, showering me with debris. An inhuman howl of pain followed.<p>

"Williams! Williams!" frantically called a voice, shrill with anger. "You bastards! You bloody, fucking, murdering bastards! Doctor! _Doctor_! Over here!" There came another cry of agony. "Hold on, mate, hold on... Doctor!"

I ran, heart pounding. Everything looked preternaturally clear in the brilliant sun, despite the smoke which clogged my throat and lungs. I dropped down next to the young soldier lying on the ground who was keening in agony. A corporal, face spattered with his companion's blood, thoughtlessly clutched at the fallen man's blood-sodden sleeve. The shoulder of the uniform was torn, revealing the twitching muscle fibre and glinting whiteness of the bone of an arm half-ripped away from the shoulder. "Oh, my God."

The corporal was beside himself. "The bastards, the bloody bastards! Williams!"

"Pull yourself, together, Corporal. Corporal!"

"Yes – yes, sir."

The barrage was diminishing, but another shell fell nearby, causing us both to hunch over the young boy on the ground. A ricocheting sliver of stone stung my cheek. I flinched and began to move quickly, flipping open a leather pouch and pulling a roll of linen from it.

"We must move him back. Hold this against the artery. There." I kept my voice as calm as I could, but time was running out – a retreat would have to be made soon. The medicos had been at the rear, but with the speed of the Afghan advance, our position was in danger of being overrun. Already I could hear the guttural cries of the Afghan skirmishers as they urged each other onward.

"Like this?"

"Press _harder_. Good, that's it. Are you hurt?"

"Just my arm, sir."

"Show me." He extended his forearm to me, where a thin line of blood trickled from the join between flesh and the mechanical armature of his hand. A slug was flattened against the palm, creasing the metal. The pistons of the little finger pumped uselessly and spasmodically. "Ah, that's not too serious. You'll live."

Murray appeared behind me suddenly, and I gratefully motioned for him to take hold of the soldier's legs preparatory to moving him. He ignored my gesture.

"Dr. Watson, sir, there's no time! We have to begin moving, the retreat to Khig has been called." Indeed, I had failed to notice the shrill of the whistles through the screams and crashes.

I nodded and straightened. There was a crack and whine. Murray shouted, his warning useless.

The first bullet caught me in the thigh, causing me to lurch and turn half-round. Time seemed to distort and stretch. His face contorted in horror, I saw the corporal reaching up to pull me down, hands wet with his friend's blood. From the corner of my eye, I saw Murray gather himself to knock me over.

I have heard it said you don't hear the bullet which kills you. I am not sure. What I know is this: there was a thunderclap, and then a moment of utter stillness and quiet. The second bullet, entering my shoulder just under the clavicle, splintered my left scapula upon exiting, as careless as a finger punched through soft paper, and just as destructive. I staggered and fell to my knees, gasping, arm lolling limply.

I looked up at a frantic Murray, who was mouthing something soundlessly. My right hand lifted to my chest, to cover the gout of blood which had so strangely appeared. And then the lightning stroke of pain hit, and I collapsed forward. Murray caught me, and swiftly slung me over his shoulder. I could not even catch my breath enough to scream, much less protest. He threw me over the broad padded back of the medical veloci-quine, goading it into swift motion. Upside-down, the last view I had was of the corporal, still kneeling next to his stricken companion. His face was white and filled with a curious combination of fury and despair, the brass hand which was stretched out to us falling away to clench uselessly at his side.

And then the noise of the battlefield crashed back over me.

* * *

><p>"For God's sake, hold him down!"<p>

"Inspector, you must wipe away that blood, my fingers are slipping on the key."

"How much longer can he hold on? Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson, sir! We are nearly at the hospital!"

I flailed in the dimness, vaguely aware of shadowy figures bending over me. I knew what was happening, I knew what came next. They would take me to that tent filled with death and blood, and they would kill me. The surgeons would take my heart out. The pain in my chest caused my breathe to come in shallow gasps, as the bullet wormed its insidious way around, turning end over end in the centre of my heart. _Not again, not again! Please, God. _

"Hopkins, never mind that. Here, you take my place. Turn the key as far as it will go, every second. Do not fail."

A cool hand gripped my face, fingers pressed into my carotid, and grey eyes glinted down at me, assessing and evaluating. _No. The surgeons... the surgeons will... _There was a voice, gasping and breathy, high-pitched in terror.

"Murray, where are... ? Murray! As you love... don't let them... do this! Murray, don't leave!"

The fingers fell away. "This is not working," came a low voice. "Hopkins, do you have a wire transmitter?"

"Me, sir? One of the portable ones? No, only detectives of five years seniority get one of those."

"Useless! We're just coming up to the Tottenham Court crossing – there's a blue box there. Stop the cab!"

"Mr. Holmes, sir! What are you doing? I can't... "

Hands fumbled afresh at my back, and I made a futile effort to twist away, agony twisting the breath from my lungs.

"Damn you, Hopkins! Here, you must place the call, then. Use this number. Tell them we are headed to Bart's; that I require my original model; and if they give you any trouble say this code phrase: '_V___i___olets bloom beneath the snow_'."

"_What_? Sir, this number, is it - ?"

"Just _do_ it! There's not a moment to be lost! I will take care of him! Get out, get _out _and make the call, now!"

There was a scramble of movement. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. A hand caught mine and squeezed it, hard. The key in my back clicked round again, again. My lips tried to shape words. _No. My heart. _The grey eyes blinked.

"Doctor, can you hear me? This is not Afghanistan. You are in an auto-cab. I am taking you to St. Bart's – we must perform emergency surgery. Your heart has suffered a malfunction."

I shook my head frantically, beyond all reason. _They will cut it out._Did I speak it out loud? I could not tell. His voice continued. "Doctor, please calm yourself. They will not take out your heart – only repair it."

Weak, contemptible tears continued to slip down my face, and the voice sighed softly. "You need not fear. I will not let them harm you. I swear it. Just do your best to live. All will be well."

A desperate hope in his promise was all I had left to cling to as I blacked out.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

**Veloci-quines and their usage in Warfare, **from Chapter 16 of_ Overview of Modern Warfare_, written by Orville Longridge, pub. Henry Linton, London, 1879

The use of mechanical horses as medical vehicles in modern warfare can be attributed to two people – the late Richard Trevithick, inventor of both the veloci-quine and the precursor of what is now known as an auto-cab, and Major General Lord Frederick Sleigh Roberts. Both came from disparate backgrounds - one an unconventional engineer from the mining districts of Cornwall, the other a long-time military man born and raised in India. However, it was through their innovations that that the conduct and equipment for medical search and rescue on battlefield was changed, thereby saving many soldiers' lives.

{cut}... Upon the adoption of the differential gear system first invented by Onésiphore Pecqueur, Trevithick was quick to change the design of his still costly steam-automotive to one that made use of previous technologies still widespread throughout the world - the cart and carriage. By incorporating the separate Watt steam-condenser into the engine and increasing the pressure differential, he was able to create a smaller, more stable engine for steam. With the French gearing system, a mechanized equine body designed by the American ex-patriot George Bogart and his new engine design, the veloci-quine was born. Controlled through a lever system on the withers, the pony-sized automaton was capable of paces from a walk up to a slow canter. Hoping to market the automaton to livery stables and cabbies, Trevithick found opposition to his creation by Luddite groups afraid that this new technology would cause Englishmen in horse-related work, such as farriers and grooms, to lose their jobs. The veloci-quine project was shelved, with only three working models remaining as novelty items for children to ride in a small park in Bloomsbury. Trevithick died in 1833, disappointed and poor, though his inventions would improve the speed and standard of mechanized locomotion throughout the Empire...

{cut}... and from his long experience in the East Indian Army, Lords Roberts was aware of the drawbacks of using live horses on the field of battle or as support for the army in hauling supplies. The expense of maintaining a live animal, the high death rate of horses in harsh climates in places such as India, and the dearth of quality horse-flesh made the idea of an automaton horse attractive. Using his influence as Major General of the English forces in the second Afghan War, he was able to persuade the reluctant Horse Guards to commission the building of several new prototype veloci-quines, adapted for use as medical and supply transport. Henry Marc Brunel carried out the manufacture, improving the controls and motion of Trevithick's design as well as changing the body to one more suited to carrying injured in comfortable repose. Soon the new automatons were delivered to Afghanistan for field testing…

{cut}... was not immediately the unqualified success hoped for, due to the unforeseen difficulty with particulate from desert sands wearing at the gears and the difficulty of finding clean water suitable for the boilers. However, with new plating and diaphragm seals for joints, the veloci-quines soon found a place on the battlefield, conveying the injured by cart or atop their low, wide padded backs to safety. With the coming of the new algorithmically controlled automatons which are more capable of individual action, it may even be that the use of flesh and blood equines by the Calvary in battle may come to and end, though this is disputed ferociously by commissioned officers and nobles, who feel that ownership of a true steed distinguishes a true officer from the common run of volunteers...

* * *

><p>Author Notes: Thanks to BBC Radio's radio drama of STUD for giving me an auditory impression of late 19th century war, minus the veloci-quines. I recommend their work for all and sundry. There is nothing like having Holmes and Watson speak <em>directly in your ears<em>... even _whisper_ sometimes. Or shout, if that's your preference.

Ladies and Gentlemen - my first fanfic. Of another fanfic. How deep the rabbit hole of fandom goes! I am in quite over my head. Deepest thanks go to my betas - Cryptix, for the honesty in her comments and her wrangling of my atrocious punctuation (which can only be partially blamed on the Japanese OS of MS Word). TheRimmerConnection for canny comments about characterization. Marixsa for helping with plot holes And Jamie - who pushed me over the edge of the rabbit hole by sending me the original story.

Generally, I would like to apologize - in writing such a story, one is practically required to know the source material - LaClarity's work. It's like being in university again, and making sure you have all the courses need to move on. I never really meant for anyone to work that hard just to get to my little piece. Secondly, don't expect tentacular hijinks for some time - Watson is in a fragile state, and both boys have ISSUES to work out. Rather a lot. Lastly, yes this is a WIP, but the plot line is clear enough to follow if you know A Study in Scarlet. It will have an end.


	2. Query  Have I a Heart?

_**A Study In Slime Revisited**_

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts, A Study in Slime, by LaClarity at Wordpress

_**Part 2**_

_* Words in the Fog * A Pound for the Crossing * The Monsters in the Room *_

_* Query - Have I a Heart? *_

_* Baked Goods and Disclosures * Things to Ponder *_

* * *

><p><em>I drifted in a grey wash, as muffling as a fall fog on the Thames. There were voices, echoing.<em>  
>'… <em>understand, it would be best for all concerned if it just simply… stopped. Rectifying the problem at this point will take even more expenditure than it has already. The whole issue would - '<em>  
>'<em>NO.' <em>  
><em>A pause.<em>  
>'<em>No, I disagree. It would be of no benefit at all. He lives.'<em>  
>'<em>It's not always a case of what you want.'<em>  
>'<em>No, because this is what <em>will _happen.'_  
>'<em>Always so stubborn. You need not resent me pointing out the logical reasons for such a case. The entire experiment seems to have been a waste. The equipment was faulty. Why the government ever became involved… '<em>  
>'<em>Speak of him in such a fashion again, and I will not be responsible for the consequences.'<em>  
>'<em>I did not speak of <em>him_.'_  
><em>Pause.<em>  
>'<em>Doubtless, the design…'<em>  
>'<em>The design was not faulty! You know it as well as I.'<em>  
>'<em>Then why did the…?'<em>  
>'<em>I do not know! I only watched him come apart in my arms! Under my own hands, I felt the damned thing break! The fault must lie in the manufacturing! My God, when I think of what's been done…How I could have - '<em>  
>'<em>Nonetheless.'<em>  
>'<em>What do you think the people of Great Britain would feel about this, if they knew about the production of such shoddy, inferior…if they had any comprehension about…?'<em>  
>'<em>Enough. You know why you can not speak. We cannot…'<em>  
>'<em>Unnecessary for you to go on. But I grow weary of your pretense. As if you are not longing to get to the root of the problem. I will do this thing, but not for your sake or the government's. For his. Now, will you help me?'<em>  
><em>Pause.<em>  
>'<em>Yes, of course.'<em>  
>'<em>Thank you.'<em>

* * *

><p>My first sensations upon awakening were a prick of pain in my arm, as of a needle. I had a crushing sense of déjà vu. Had I woken up recently in a strange place? A dim memory of hollow distant voices faded as my consciousness rose to the surface again. My lids lifted slowly. My head throbbed; my body ached as though every sinew had been strained, and my chest rose and fell with an even rhythm.<p>

_Ah. Not dead, after all._

I blinked once or twice at the white-painted pressed tin ceiling. I was lying on a white-painted iron-work bed in the centre of a large room, propped upon a multiplicity of pillows. Without haste or undue alarm, my gaze travelled slowly around the room, which seemed to be a hospital room, judging by the white-painted cleanliness of the woodwork and the sharp scent of carbolic soap. Shoved against the wall nearest the door, a cloth-covered table with stained wooden legs held a tray holding several bottles, lint and rolls of bandages. A beaker over a Bunsen burner bubbled and steamed, filling the air with humidity. Underneath, a brown stained piece of gauze trailed disconsolately from a bin.

I blinked stupidly, trying to re-orient myself. A glass-domed breathing apparatus wheezed as an oiled leather accordion puffed oxygen into the rubber mask over my lower face. On my wrist, a copper disc was strapped and trailing wires. A steady dull metronomic clicking sound came from a scribing stylus as it swung slowly against a slowly turning roll of paper.

A metallic sound behind my left shoulder startled me and I rolled my head on the pillow to see Holmes at a table by my bedside. It was a Holmes I had not yet seen – not the manic scientist, not the languid depressive, nor the restless and keen-eyed investigator. This Holmes was unkempt, hollow-cheeked, hunched and weary. He was dressed uncharacteristically in wrinkled shirt-sleeves and a waistcoat which looked as though they had been slept in. He was a study in grey all over – black untidy hair, pallid skin, tired cloudy eyes. Colourless and pensive, he closed a Moroccan case lid over a syringe, and began rolling a piece of leather strapping with slow, almost clumsy movements. I lifted my head and he stilled, his eyes catching mine.

"Holmes," I murmured, and an odd dark violet flush rose on his pale cheeks. He straightened, a smile dawning on his face, pale eyes beginning to shine. "Watson," he said in an undertone, and then, "My d... Doctor Watson, you are awake? How do you feel? I am so... You caused me some consternation, you know. I am relieved, profoundly, to see you finally conscious. Are you well?

"Really, Holmes," I muttered behind my mask. In any other person, this outpouring to no purpose would be termed babbling, and it was so unlike my normally self-contained, sardonic friend that I was slightly disquieted. "I thank you for your concern, but I feel... quite... " How did I feel? I tried to clear the remaining cobwebs from my mind. Where was I? What had passed?

Holmes stepped toward the bed, the buckled strap falling unnoticed from his hand to the floor with a clink. Another pace and he was leaning over me, clasping my left hand in his right and looking closely in my eyes with the acuteness of vision I had only ever seen him use previously at the crime scene in Euston Square. I blinked up at his unshaven face. He scrutinized my visage carefully, and seemed to relax a trifle at what he saw. His cool breath fanned over my face, and his smile widened to a grin. He lifted away the muffling mask with deft hands.

"I do believe you have returned to the land of the living, Doctor. I am so pleased."

"My damned pension. Ferryman wanted a pound for the crossing, and me with only 11 shillings, six pence," I said uneasily, and he laughed briefly in honest delight, squeezing my hand. Again, a feeling of apprehension touched me. Solicitude from Sherlock Holmes was more frightening than... what? My thoughts battered against some unseen barrier.

Holmes' fingertips brushed against my cheek as he lifted his left hand to my forehead, resting his palm against it. The fond gesture squeezed my heart strangely._ How odd_, I thought. _I must be rather feverish. His hands feel... so strangely _cool...

"NO!"

I recoiled, and Holmes released me, the flush of pleasure fading from his face. He straightened slowly. He did not try to question my vehement rejection, or protest that all was well. Taking a shallow breath, he took a deliberate step back from the bed, looking away from my panic-stricken gaze.

I stared, eyes running over the length of him, and in particular his midriff. There was nothing to be seen, no large tell-tale bulge under the shirt and waistcoat. Yet – I remembered - a stroke on my back in a darkened steam tunnel – an insidious snake-like grip wreathing round my chest and legs while both Holmes' hands were occupied, dampness seeping though trousers and shirt – a crushing pressure squeezing my chest tightly, while at the same time something with inhuman strength forced my broken heart's key to keep me functioning.

The memories intruded upon my mind with their remembered horror, and my breath quickened in rising agitation. The clicking of the metronome began to speed up and the stylus swung wildly as my heart galloped in reaction.

"My God, my God… you're not a human! Not human! Are you, Holmes? You abomination – what are you?" _What is he? Is he even more unnatural a creature than myself?_

"As human as you are, Doctor."

I barked a hysterical laugh. "That is not saying much, Holmes! I know well what I am! My unnatural life – my God, I wish I had died! Why didn't you let me die?" My despairing outburst burst out without thought, and the tone shocked even me. I froze.

Holmes took an involuntary step forward, hands clenched, and I flinched in involuntary reaction.

"Do not speak in that - that unconsidered way, Doctor! Allow you to die? How could I – I, who was responsible for this? As to being inhuman, you know quite well that having mechanical parts does not lessen one's essential humanity! If you would but just -"

The door abruptly opened and a medical automaton glided in. Its copper toned face seemed to cast a reproachful look at the looming Holmes, before it came to my bedside to gather up the cascading monitor paper, checking the connection to the wire attached to my wrist. The automaton looked again at Holmes, algorithms quickly concluding that he was the cause of my agitation. Holmes again made an abortive gesture towards me, and I pressed myself backwards into the pillows, trembling, like a cornered animal. My pulse beat a red rhythm behind my eyes. The automaton angled its head to the door, indicating that Holmes should leave. The clicking of the metronome was frenetic.

But – my heart? I lifted a shaking hand to my bare chest, feeling a bandage wound tightly around my ribs. Questing, it encountered a wad of lint covering a point of dull throbbing pain, as if I had been pierced or cut to the bone and beyond. Beneath the linen covering, my chest continued to rise and fall in a familiar pattern, albeit much faster than it had since the aftermath of a certain battlefield. My heart pulsed its familiar old rhythm, and a sweet agony, a surfeit of hope surrounded and lifted it.

I lifted my eyes, damp and disbelieving, to Holmes, who had turned away, his thin shoulders bowed and tense.

"Holmes! Wait… !" I called, voice forced past the peculiar lump in my throat.

He paused at the threshold of the door, without turning.

"Don't go, not just yet. Tell me – tell me, do I have a heart again? A natural heart?" I heard him catch his breath, and pressed on, "A human transplantation was possible? I thought that any transplantation procedure would be impossibly risky, but -"

"No, Watson," came his low voice. "No, I am afraid you are correct in your latter belief. It was – and continues to be – too risky."

"Then, what happened? How did I come to be here? And alive!" My questions tumbled out. "Where is this place, and, if this is not a heart of flesh and blood, then what is it - ?"

He half-turned his head, to look over his shoulder at me. Despite the weariness on his face, his lips quirked slightly. "Such simple questions, Doctor. I expected something a touch more verbose from you, having read your diary."

"You've read my diary?" I parroted, taken aback. He turned towards me more fully, with his eyebrow raised, a slight smile playing over his lips. "Of course_._" _Of course._We locked gazes, and then simultaneously burst into laughter, mine a hysterical giggle of tension.

My laughter was short-lived and painfully gasped, and Holmes quickly became grave, face pensive. I stared at him again, inwardly shuddering. My stomach turned over, and I swallowed heavily. I had guessed it at the very start. _He was a freak_.

As if he had read my mind, he wet his lips and spoke in such a strained cheery tone, it sounded quite false.

"Watson, there is much I need to... There is much to explain, but now is not the time. I cannot be in the same room without causing you trepidation, it seems. I must go. I will not distress you further with my presence."

He gave a small bow, all formality.

"Fare you well, Doctor Watson."

I should have protested, but I did not. My hands were still trembling on top of the sheets, and my last sight of Holmes was of his straight, slim back disappearing out the door, before the medical automaton leaned over and re-fastened my mask over my face, blocking him out entirely.

* * *

><p>"Will you be coming back to Baker Street soon, Doctor?"<p>

I shrugged my shoulders carefully at the question, still sore three days after my surgery. I had been accompanied to this small windowless sitting room by another med-automaton, walking like an old man and leaning on the wall for support. Bearing teacakes in a small basket and murmuring imprecations about hospital food, Mrs. Hudson was doing her level best to remain cheerful in the face of my despondency. However, she carried unpleasant associations as well as baked goods, like some wretched unwanted Red Riding Hood. I wished unfairly she hadn't come.

"Oh, now, Doctor, I hate to see you so!" She patted my hand. "You look even peakier than when you first came to live at Baker Street. It seemed like you were taking a turn for the better, what with my cooking, and Mr. Holmes to keep you active –"

I started at the mention of Holmes, and took a hasty swallow of tea to cover up my nerves. A finger of fear traced up my spine, and I tried to direct the conversation in a safer direction.

"How do you fare, Mrs. Hudson? You and... the maid?" I winced at the idiotic question.

She gave me an odd look. "I am very well, Doctor. As for poor Polly, Mr. Holmes had it in his room for two hours yesterday! When I came up looking for it, he had the back off, and had pulled out some kind of wire device. Most odd! He assured me that what he had taken out would not affect Polly's function in anyway. I told him, he had best not meddle with the serving maid anymore, and would he please send it back down when he was finished."

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. Meddle with the mechanical maid indeed. If Holmes could kiss my clock-work animated corpus, then was there any limit on his depravity? Or did such things count, when one consorted with a fellow freak?

Mrs. Hudson went on, in an airy way, "But then, of course, Polly spends much less time trying to clean upstairs these past few days."

"What, you mean, now that there's only one lodger instead of two to worry about?"

"Oh, no, Doctor. I mean, your rooms are so much less cluttered, what with all the tubes and racks and papers being boxed up. I will sorry to lose Mr. Holmes as a lodger, just when I had the placed rented. But you will still be with us, won't you?"

"What?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes has given notice. He has told me he will be moving to new lodgings at the end of the week. I must say, he could have stayed on a bit longer to help you when you return. But then, he has been behaving oddly ever since you were so afflicted." Her kindly face puckered in concern. I trembled slightly to think of how 'odd' Holmes could act, but forced a question out past stiff lips.

"What has he been doing?"

"Well, when he came back from the hospital three days ago... Mr. Holmes is not one to to share his innermost thoughts, but he looked – well, beaten. I was mortally afraid he would tell me you had died, but he just gave me the sweetest smile, told me that you were fine, that you would continue to live as my lodger, but that he himself had to leave – a new situation, that had just come up." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Not that I believe that, but well. Mr. Holmes is a very private person, and with good reason."

I suppressed a hysterical giggle at that. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, with good reason indeed. But you were saying… "

She straightened up. "Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Holmes went upstairs, and after a time I could hear the most dreadful din. Such a racket! I didn't dare knock. But then he went out again directly, so Polly and I crept upstairs to see what was amiss. There were books and papers everywhere, drawers pulled out. Even in your room, Doctor." She cast me a worried look, but I waved a hand dismissively.

"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Hudson. But my room… ?"

"Yes, Doctor. All your books shelves were emptied. There were volumes were everywhere, and your bed was tipped upside down. The mattress was half-ripped! I don't know what Mr. Holmes was thinking, I really don't!"

Ah. I felt a small surge of anger. Was it not enough that Holmes deceived me, mocked my lack of intelligence, and analyzed me inside and out? Did he also have to destroy my belongings? My very bed? There was nothing of any value, nothing to hide except... my sketch of Murray. Why would Holmes - but no. Ridiculous. But Mrs. Hudson was watching me so anxiously that I could not disturb her. I attempted to make light of it.

"Did he leave me my clothes, at least? It is all right, Mrs. Hudson, I'm not upset with you."

"Yes, Doctor. Thank you. Anyway, Mr. Holmes has been uncommonly quiet the past two days. I would say it's a relief, except all his trays have been untouched. Such a waste of food! And so quiet. It used to be, he'd be upstairs plucking away at his violin at any hour, but not even that. Just silence – it quite unnerves me."

"Perhaps it will be a relief to have him go, Mrs. Hudson. To have such a _man _as a lodger is probably more trouble than it's worth." I spoke with a sarcastic intonation on the word 'man,' but Mrs. Hudson gave me a small frown, surprising me. "You do not agree?"

"No, Doctor, I do not," she said emphatically. "To have such a man... Mr. Holmes has his ways, and he is a difficult man to understand, but he means well."

I leaned forward, searching her face carefully. "Mrs. Hudson. Please. Do you know what kind of a – a _man_ Holmes is?"

She gave me such an old-fashioned look, that I blushed like a raw schoolboy. I hoped she didn't think I meant that Holmes' proclivities were... I turned my thoughts quickly away from the painful topic, heart aching.

"Doctor Watson. I knew from the first. He told me, and asked if it were possible to have a steam-heater installed." I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Yes. Steam for Holmes'... appendages seemed plausible.

"I had to refuse him, as I didn't have the means, and neither did he, but... well. I suppose it was like one of those dreadful government experiments I am always reading about in those penny-dreadful periodicals – you know the like. I wouldn't put it past them to do such a thing."

She turned a becoming pink, but continued in the face of my stupefaction.

" 'Men From the Moon Took my Wife! Lord Byron Walks Again In Grosvenor Square!' That sort of thing. Ridiculous, but enjoyable, and often there's a grain of truth."

I shook my head slightly with a disbelieving smile. It was a far cry to say that penny-dreadfuls were actually exposing some grim governmental cover-up. It was my certain knowledge that it was true, in this instance. And it was one reason I was so afraid.

She patted my hand again. "Doctor Watson, if there is one thing I have learned in all my time of being a housekeeper and landlady – you get all types."

"Is that so?"

She nodded her head regally. "Indeed. Take it as a lesson in life – it is no use to take against anyone for what may have happened to them, or how they are shaped. Everyone deserves a chance."

And with that sweeping summation, she tilted her head, picked up the teapot and smiled at my stunned look.

"Another cup, Doctor?"


	3. The Meddler

**_A Study in Slime Revisited_**

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime_, by LaClarity at Wordpress

**Part 3**

* Watson's Doubts * Hopkins is Caught Out * What Dreams May Come *

* A Visitation *

* A Pointless Life Laid Bare * Obfuscation and Frustration *

* Of the Construction and Life of the Brain and Spinal Cord *

Mrs. Hudson was one of my few visitors in that strange hospital wing. I never saw another patient. There were no windows anywhere. The only daily living contact I had was with my taciturn physician – I did not count the hovering medical automatons. I had little to do to pass the time and recover, and my thoughts were much occupied with the subject of Holmes.

Holmes, the freak. Holmes with his great secret – but not from Mrs. Hudson, oh no. Granted, our acquaintance was short, but if a man is to take rooms with another, he should tell a chap he is half-sea monster! Christ, it still made me nauseated. Not to mention the 'partner/friend' conversations we'd had. Holmes' contradictory manner infuriated me in retrospect – he kissed me then pushed me away; he stated that he wanted us to be partners but not for sex, seemingly. What the _hell _was he on about?

Holmes felt he was as human as I? Me, with the seat of my emotions carved away? I was a hideous amalgam of machine and flesh, with a core of metal – I could not forget it, and I hated it. It was the despair of my life that I was no longer fully human where it counted. Why did Holmes not feel the same?

My second visitor was Police Inspector Hopkins, the bright young man who seemed to admire Holmes so. Ostensibly he was here to take my statement about Thorpe. But when I obliquely asked him about Holmes' alleged humanity, he seemed not to understand, and was even indignant on Holmes' behalf.

"What are you on about, Doctor? When I arrived, Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were hovering over you, trying to keep breath in your body! That's the decently human thing to do, I should think! Holmes was holding you against his shoulder so that the mechanical maid could better reach your... well, your key, Doctor. I had no idea they were doing mechanical hearts now! You are lucky to be alive, and the person you should be thanking is Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

"Yes, yes, lucky indeed! I understand that he tried his best... "

"Tried, sir? No, he _did _his best, and beyond! I don't even know what connections he has, but do you know what I had to sign to even get into this section of St. Bartholomew's? It's worse than trying to get at the Crown Jewels in London Tower! No, Doctor. Begging your pardon, but Mr. Holmes must think the world of you, to arrange all this. He was that concerned for you."

"But, did it seem like he had - did you notice anything odd... in his behaviour?"

"Well, Doctor Watson, if you mean, have I ever seen a cold man like Holmes almost beside himself out of worry, much less call down the powers of heaven to get you in this place, no, I haven't. I didn't think he was the type." Hopkins sounded a little envious.

"I do hope you'll be getting back to Baker Street soon, Doctor Watson, and, well, rein him in! He's been running himself ragged these past few days – dug up all sorts of information on our murder victim's background, and then he went off to Leeds just this morning! Said he was looking into something about a machinist's shop up that way. He's been looking like an old cadaver, the way he's been going." He shook his head in puzzlement.

"Running himself ragged! But, Mrs. Hudson said that he has been oddly quiet... " I trailed off. My mouth set tightly.

Inspector Hopkins looked anxious about this apparent contradiction. Looking into his flushed face, I wondered suddenly who was telling me the truth. What in God's name was Holmes up to?

I gave up, and added this vexing new information to my list of things to fret about.

* * *

><p>The patched canvas of a temporary field hospital billowed overhead. I lay on a hard surface, cold and unable to move.<p>

"Sir, you've got to do something! We can't lose Dr. Watson this way!" Murray's pleading voice broke.

"Orderly, the man's just about bled dry. Two rifle bullet wounds, one nicking the sub-clavian artery. I am amazed he lasted this long," said a tired, gravelly voice.

"He's not dead yet!"

"He will be soon. Do you think we can work miracles here? There are others to be saved; we can't waste any more time on this one."

"Just a moment." A cool tenor voice was now speaking. "There is a chance. Provided, of course, the procedure works."

"The – the procedure?" Murray sounded horrified. "No, sir, you can't! You _can't_! He wouldn't want this – I won't let you do this to him!"

"Guards, please escort him outside," ordered the voice with disinterest.

There was a scuffle, and Murray's voice crying as he was pulled away, "Watson! Dr. Watson! Don't let them do this! You'll be a monster! _John_!"

"There is no 'let' in the Army," said the voice. "What disgusting sentiment. You took the shilling, Doctor. Now, let's see what I have to work with… "

A scalpel gleamed, came down and sliced in a quick stroke. Agony flowered in my chest and I cried out. The voice murmured, "Hush, now. I am trying to think. Ah, yes, left ventricle, mostly intact. We can use him. The rest, irretrievably broken, I am afraid. Get the rubbish bin, and we'll have that unreliable emotional organ out, eh? Let's get him hooked up."

Horrified, I tried to roll off the table, but was pinned by my ankles and wrists. I tugged, wrenched with frenetic strength. When I looked at my bindings, I saw that they were slick, rubbery things, pulsing with obscene life and strength. I opened my mouth to scream, but another appendage wrapped itself around my head. I gagged as it forced its way between my lips and past my tongue.

The grey eyes regarded me, impassive. "I said, hush, Doctor. I have work to do here. You have a heart, and it must go. I told you before – I don't like to see my tools broken, and now you are finally in my power, I will fix you."

And with that, Holmes used both hands to pull my bloody chest open.

* * *

><p>I shot awake with a shout of horror, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. I touched the bandages over my heart gingerly, hardly believing it was still there. My God… that was a bad one. I still had the sensation of long fingers delving into my chest, and shuddered. I had no actual memory of the surgeon's tent in Afghanistan, but what my fevered imagination produced was horrifying enough. I sighed, and threw my arm over my eyes. There would be no more sleep tonight.<p>

* * *

><p>By the fifth day I was beginning to feel as if I were incarcerated. The lack of windows and natural light were wearing on me, and my nightmares made the dark hours hideous. I was beyond fear or depression, and was working on anger instead. It seemed a better outlet.<p>

It was meal time, and I was eating alone again in the sitting room. I was regarding the blancmange with real loathing, and contemplating saving my spoon to begin tunnelling my way to freedom, when a heavy-set man in a dapper black suit and waistcoat slid into the chair opposite me. In comparison to my exhausted, ill state, he looked irritatingly fresh and well. He carefully laid a gleaming topper on the table and regarded me with considerable attention. I gave an irritated grunt, grinding the spoon round the bowl.

"Have you a grudge against that pudding?" enquired the man in a rich baritone, lifting an eyebrow.

"Not especially I haven't, though I can't recommend it as a speciality here. Not unless you want something to gum envelopes. Perhaps you can use it. Nice hat. Are you some sort of banker?"

He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. He looked to be in his late thirties, tall and solidly built, with a touch of jowls. Silver threaded through his side-whiskers and swept-back dark wavy hair.

"Well, you could say that I am your host here."

"Wonderful. Let me out of here."

Both eyebrows went up at this. "Why, in two days' time, Doctor Watson, you will be discharged, as free as the proverbial birds of the air. I assume you will be going back to Baker Street?"

I flung down my spoon, spattering blancmange. The man winced, pulled out a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, wiped a blot from his cheek, and looked with regret at his top hat. I ignored this side-play.

"Why the hell does everyone who visits me keep asking that question?" I shouted. "Who even cares? I could just disappear, and no one would miss me, so who the bloody fuck wants to know?"

The man's face showed a trace of amusement. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson. Of course, disappearing is always an option, but there are, let's just say, interested parties who would like to know."

"If, by 'interested parties,' you mean Mr. Sherlock bloody Holmes, tell him that his concern would go further if he weren't too much of a freak to come here and talk to me himself." _The monster. The manipulator. _My face was flushed, and my clockwork heart pounded faster at the thought of seeing Holmes again.

"I see." He tilted his head. "You begin to interest me, Doctor. I must beg Sherlock's pardon. I can see that his prototype works perfectly, exactly as he designed it – you really are looking much better. Quite rosy-cheeked."

"What are you talking about?" I growled.

He gave me a half smile, and said, as if speaking to himself, "Beyond his strange sense of responsibility, I could not understand why he seemed so attached. I did not approve. It wasn't the most expedient course of action. It was so very unlike him."

"Finished your riddling, Mad Hatter?"

He shook with a silent laugh, and slapped the table. "Such reckless rudeness, Doctor! Yet you have no idea who you are speaking with." He swept a hand to indicate the room we sat in. "Hasn't it occurred to you, that the man who could get you this level of medical treatment would be a man of some considerable power?"

"Oh, I know who you are."

Again an eyebrow lifted in assumed surprise.

"My _gaoler. _I am to be a kept man, apparently. My gratitude is _endless_. Shall I get down and kiss your feet now? Or can it wait until after pudding?"

The smile slipped from his face as if wiped away, and his pale grey-green eyes narrowed. "I _see_. Yes - you are that foolhardy. Doctor Watson, there is no such thing as bravery, only different degrees of fear. What are you afraid of, Doctor?"

"Not you," I tossed back. "Who are you, again, by the by? You never said."

"It's patently obvious you are not afraid of me. Perhaps you are afraid of dying? No, I think not. A doctor who becomes a soldier cannot be afraid of death. Dr. John H. Watson, veteran of the Afghan war. No living close relations, no one to care if he lives or dies. Studied pre-medical training in Edinburgh, which certainly accounts for that burr in your accent. Finished your medical training with the University of London. Interestingly, after your studies, instead of entering general practice, you went into research for Queen and country. My people haven't yet turned up what area you were involved in. _Yet_. This, also, I find _noteworthy_. Care to tell me what branch of research you were in?"

My nails bit into my palms at his insinuations. There were closed doors that I would not re-open. I did not blink as I looked into his bright gaze, carefully keeping my face neutral. His lips curved up.

"No matter. You subsequently joined the 66th division of Foot, Berkshire regiment, as an assistant surgeon. Wounded in action during the battle of Maiwand, and underwent an experimental heart replacement. Invalided back to England via the _Orontes_, with an Army pension of eleven shillings, six pence." He rolled out my biography with relish, finishing with pleased emphasis on my penurious allowance from Queen and country.

I felt numb. "Who _are _you? How did you find all that out?"

He waved a careless hand. "A matter of public record, dear Doctor. All information of that type is stored somewhere. All it takes to discover it is _access_." With a grim set on his lips, his eyes hardened. "In all likelihood, had you not encountered that minor drug-runner Stamford, you would have sunk into the metropolis of London, to either live life out as a person of little account - or you could have... " he touched his forefinger to his temple, miming a pistol.

"To be so clinically _low in spirits_ – well, I am astonished you have not chosen the latter already. This also is curious. But you did meet Stamford, and subsequently became Sherlock Holmes' flat-mate. Thereby coming to _my _attention."

The more he spoke, the colder I felt. I uncurled the fists I had involuntarily clutched under the table, and rested them on my thighs. "I find I am getting damned tired of being analysed. Should I congratulate you? No, I don't think so. After all, if it's public record, it doesn't exactly entail much effort, unlike, say, deduction. I'll wager you didn't even stir yourself to get this information. Some poor little secretary did it, right? You are right - I'm not that important. I'm nobody. In fact, I have no idea why you are even _here_! I hope what you found out about my sad little life gives you much satisfaction."

His small smile seemed incongruous after my little speech. "Oh, Doctor, satisfaction comes from having completed a difficult task. But - you think highly of Sherlock's science of deduction, rather than my mundane research? Ah, you give me hope – tenuous hope – that my task is achievable."

Rather than dignify this further gibberish, I remained silent. I was beginning to regret the demolition of my blancmange – feigning hunger would have been a good excuse to get rid of the man.

"Why have you not attempted to contact Sherlock since your surgery?"

I breathed out through clenched teeth.

"Surely, as your rescuer and the architect of your recovery, you owe it to him?"

My lips drew back in a parody of a smile. He returned one in kind.

"He has been very worried about your condition. Do consider his feelings, Doctor Watson." The mock disappointment in his voice tipped my irritation over into fury.

"His feelings?" I exploded. "He doesn't have any proper ones! Do you think making me feel guilty over_ social duty _will make me see him? After what he has... Never mind. What about what he owes _me_?"

"Touché."

"Will you _ever _get to the bloody _point_?"

"Doctor, common human decency requires that... "

" 'Human' is the grossest misnomer ever to apply in this case!" I shouted.

"Very well." He was not troubled by my outburst at all.

There was a pause, while we eyed each other, then he lifted a shoulder nonchalantly.

"You should speak with him. That is the point I wish to make."

"And that's – it? You want me to speak with Holmes?"

"It would suffice, for now. At the very least, I think you would rest easier in your mind, Doctor, for having done it. Perhaps suffer fewer ... nightmares?"

I shot to my feet, unsure of whether I wanted to fly at him for his cuttingly accurate summation of my mental condition, or back away. I stood firm, however, and straightened my spine. My voice was low and only shook slightly as I spoke. "I see you are just as willing to fight dirty to achieve your ends as Holmes is. Don't try to use my feelings to manipulate me again. I've had enough of that."

He rose with me, and gathered up his be-spattered hat.

"Yes, I can quite see it now. You have a certain stubborn resilience, Doctor. It will stand you in good stead – if you are to live with Sherlock Holmes."

"I am not sure I want to live with him. I am not sure I wish to continue our association in any way at all."

"Excellent! Keep to that stance, Doctor. It will do him good. I do believe I will bid you good day now, Doctor Watson. It has been most edifying to meet you at last. I did so want to see for whom Sherlock had made such an effort."

He gave me a half-bow and turned away.

"Wait – who in bloody hell are you? Tell me – "

"Really, Doctor. Such language, even from an ex-soldier! Sherlock really does have perverse tastes – in flatmates. I shall certainly twit him about it." He strode quickly away down the hall, polished shoes flashing.

"You tell him to go to hell!" I shouted after him.

"Tell him yourself, Doctor Watson," his voice floated back. Then he was gone.

The morning of the seventh day, I was far from feeling restful. Oh, not from being cooped up, nor from visitors, nor even from nightmares. I was sure that I was being manipulated by a master, and that puppeteer's name was _Holmes_. The physiological effects of such a combination of fear, loathing and anger were such that the med-automatons began to follow me everywhere. I paced, trying to regain my strength, but couldn't out-walk my thoughts.

_'When are you coming back to Baker Street, Doctor?'_

_'I do hope you can rein in Mr. Holmes, Doctor.'_

_'Doctor, why don't you tell Holmes to go to hell yourself?'_

My hands curled into fists._ Damn you, Holmes! I can see your stratagem!_

I couldn't face him. I couldn't face that freak.

'_There is no bravery, Doctor Watson, only different degrees of fear.' _

I shuddered. It was true. I was afraid to see him again. I had longed for him, and then he had shown himself to be inhuman. _Like me_, whispered a voice inside. It only showed how faulty my heart was: what I felt turned out to be false. How could anyone almost fall in love with a monster like Holmes? _A monster like me, _insinuated the voice. I paced faster, trying to outrun the voice. I let anger overtake me instead – it was safer than facing that gaping darkness within where my heart had been.

The last straw came when an automaton entered my room, bearing a paper-wrapped package. I took it, and a heavy volume tore through the packaging and thumped on the floor, just missing my foot. I carefully bent and picked it up.

" '_Of The Construction and Life of the Brain and Spinal Cord_. By Karl Friedrich Burdach'," I read aloud. My brow crinkled in puzzlement, and I turned the book over in my hands. Ah. There was a piece of heavy note card marking a place in the pages.

I took the book to my bed and sat on the edge. I opened the book at the place marker and looked at the chapter heading.

'The Amygdala Complex, and Its Function.

'Within the medial temporal lobes of the brain of complex vertebrates are located two masses of cells, shaped like almonds. The function of these masses is not completely understood at this time, but it is clear that they are of primary importance in the processing and memory of emotional reactions, and as part of the limbic system, could be considered the seat of all emotion. In mammals... '

I slammed the book shut. With shaking fingers, I plucked out the note card, and read it.

_'Doctor Watson. I believe this book may help clarify a few things for you, as regards yourself. The brain is where the heart is. Yrs, Holmes.'_

I stared blindly for a moment. After a time, I realized my hand hurt. I uncurled the shaking fist I had clenched on the slip of paper, and smoothed it out again. I stood up and faced the automaton.

"Bring me my clothes, if you please. It's time I left."

_It's time Sherlock Holmes and I had a little talk about his meddling ways._

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

'Of The Construction and Life of the Brain and Spinal Cord. By Karl Friedrich Burdach', _Vom Baue und Leben des Gehirns_, was published in three vols. (Leipzig, (1819–1826).

* * *

><p>Third chapter, and apologies to all and sundry – a chapter with little actual steampunk, action or octopoid exploits! Just angst, pure and simple, and not even Holmes around! His presence looms large in the Doctor's mind, though.<p> 


	4. Still Life of a Detective

_**A Study in Slime Revisited**_

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime_, by LaClarity at Wordpress

**Part 4**

* Secrets of St. Bart's * Still Life of a Detective * Confrontation with a Puppeteer *

* Brother Mine * Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil *

"Where in God's name are we?"

The orderly pushing my old-fashioned bath chair over the slightly uneven stone floor was happy to supply an answer. "Priory of St. Bartholomew the Great. An old medieval monastery, which was torn down in Reformation times."

"If it was torn down, then what are these tunnels?" Our voices echoed faintly. The sharp scent of carbolic from the hospital wing had been replaced with the dry, dusty scent of old cellars.

"Oh, finest Romanesque style, sir! Anyhow, it was the buildings that got torn down. Won't be much longer – ah, there sir. That's where we join the main corridor."

"Corridor – to _where_?" I asked testily. I had given up on getting a straight answer, but asked anyway. I The gas-lit tunnel we were passing through was finished in roughly treated stone, the roof arcing overhead like a barrel of stone. Ahead, I could see a large metal door at the tunnel's end with an incongruous looking ivory key-button system set next to it. The orderly pulled my chair up smartly next to it, and punched the numeral buttons in some kind of code. Nothing happened. He scowled, and pounded on the door forcefully.

"Hi! Joseph! Joe! Open up, will you? The damned keypad is stuck again!"

A click, and groan as the heavy door swung aside, and a disgruntled guard with a wrapped piece of bread and meat in his hand glared at us both. "Enoch, I was in the middle of my bacon sandwich! When will you... Oh! Sorry, sir." He made a half gesture as if to salute, noticed the sandwich in his hand and hastily hid it. "Doctor Watson, is it? Just take him on through, Enoch. I'll check him off the list."

"Thanks, Joe." I was wheeled through into a more modern tunnel, which stretched away dimly, lit periodically by gas lamps.

"Good Lord," I muttered. "Where _does _this lead?" I was feeling uneasy. The hospital wing had been bizarre but this secretive place was beyond ridiculous. I could hardly believe Holmes had arranged for this.

"Oh, Liverpool Street Station, sir. It's only ten minutes more if we move briskly. Mr. Holmes directed us to take you out the more discreet entrance, rather than the emergency one. That one is in St. Bart's, sir. In a broom cupboard. It does look odd, sir, when two men come out from a broom cupboard together, begging your pardon."

I recalled the last time I had been in a broom cupboard with Holmes, and my cheeks burned. "Yes, indeed it does."

* * *

><p>I pushed the door of 221 Baker Street open, chest tight. Mrs. Hudson hurried to meet me with a glad cry, and I quickly pasted a smile over my inner turmoil.<p>

"Oh! Dr. Watson! I am glad to see you back again!"

I caught up her hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. "I am glad to see you as well, Mrs. Hudson. I've missed the place." Strange but true – despite my short time here, 221B was beginning to feel like a home.

She smiled, and called over her shoulder, "Polly! Come here and escort the Doctor upstairs. You still don't look yourself, Doctor. Please – for my sake at least?" I acquiesced and, under Mrs. Hudson's watchful eye, I allowed the mechanical maid to take my elbow and bag, and we processed slowly up the seventeen steps to the landing outside my door.

"Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was low. I looked back down at her. There was a crease between her brows. "Remember what I told you, will you? That everyone deserves a chance?" I gave her a nod, and turned back to the door of our – of _my_ rooms. I blew out a breath and went inside, closing the door firmly behind.

* * *

><p>The sitting room looked barren. There was no mass of test tubes, glass slides or beakers which occasionally crowded each other off the table to tinkle and smash on the carpet. No plates of half-eaten food lay anywhere, forgotten mid-way. The bookshelves were half-full, and papers overflowed from several packing crates. A peat-brown tibia lay forgotten on the breakfast table next to a kettle hissing on a burner, sending out puffs of vapour.<p>

He sat curled up in an armchair dragged over to the window embrasure, one arm draped languidly over a knee, a freshly lit cigarette burning from between thin fingers, head resting against the frame. He looked as though he had been busy with the labour of packing, with his jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up. He rolled his head, and his grey, strangely dull gaze rested on me. I felt a clench in the area of my heart to see him – he did look even more hollow-cheeked than usual. His skin seemed almost translucent, blue veins a faint lace-work beneath. He was a marble statue of Laocoön, beautiful and still but for the tracery of smoke drifting. I stood stock still a moment. Damn him.

"Doctor Watson." His voice was oddly flat. "I wasn't quite expecting - as you can see, I am just about finished up here. Welcome back to your rooms." And Holmes took a drag from his cigarette. He tilted his head back and expelled a long stream through his shapely lips.

I was goaded into unwise speech. "Oh, get out of that damned window, and stop posing for me like a - a damned coquette!"

His brows snapped together, and his gaze quickened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come now, Holmes, you need not rub my nose in it! You know that I wanted you before you – well, before. And there you sit, like some wan artist's model… and I can see you've only just lit that cigarette! You are still trying to manipulate me like some damned master puppeteer, playing on my gross instincts! You posed yourself deliberately in that window, admit it! I may have wanted you, but I don't need this – this play-acting! I don't need _you_!" The furious words tumbled out, disguising my jolt of longing and underlying fear.

Holmes closed his eyes and sighed. "Doctor, you are under a misapprehension. I did not arrange myself here in order to play upon your weaknesses and seduce you. Mrs. Hudson could corroborate my story, if you like – she's the one who came upstairs two hours past, trying to tempt me with tea. But if that were not enough, you could deduce the same from the evidence before you."

He took another puff, and swept his hand out and away dramatically. "Behold the scene. Multiple cigarette butts, overfilling this receptacle here. A pattern of ashes, around the same container, but also with an arcing pattern, from where I lifted the cigarette, so – " He touched it to his lips. "And then reached over to tap the ash." He ground the cigarette out with a rough twist of his wrist.

Indeed, it was as he said. A teacup, presumably the one Mrs. Hudson had left was now overflowing and littering the carpeting with damp cigarette ends. Holmes obviously hadn't moved from his spot for hours. I flushed scarlet at my hasty words.

"I am sorry, Holmes."

"Think nothing of it. You are overwrought, no doubt." There was a pause.

"But I do think you have been trying to manipulate me." I doggedly pursued the matter that had driven me here through my fear.

He turned his head so quickly, I jerked. He stilled, his face going blank. "Doctor, you still feel some anxiety in my company." It was not a question.

"Just a twitch," I lied.

His eyes narrowed. He didn't believe me. He slowly swung his legs down, moving with care so as not to give me cause for alarm. He leaned back, hands gripping the sill.

_Damn him, could I hide nothing? _I held my ground, reminding myself that the door was just two steps away beside me.

"Manipulate you? Well. Yes. I did send the Inspector. I knew Mrs. Hudson would speak on my behalf without any prompting. I had hoped that at least you would meet me again, so I could convince you to stay on here at Baker Street. You see, Doctor, you have a strong sense of duty, and good manners as well, a fatal combination in the hands of such a person as myself. I felt you might have had some niggling feeling of guilt over not thanking me for your rescue. Not to mention the fact that your need for answers might drive you here." He turned his head away, eyes sliding closed. "I could not continue to push, however, once I was given your hospital report. Your nightmares… I would not be the one who finally caused your unravelling, Doctor. So - I desisted."

My fury surged to the fore again. "I did not want to believe you were capable of such underhanded dealings, Holmes! But I am only surprised to hear you say you stopped!"

Surprised, his eyes opened at that. "What do you mean by that last statement? Of course I – Just a moment, why _are_ you here so early? You were meant to be released in the afternoon!"

"I am here, firstly, because I _live_ here, and second, because of _this_!" I dragged the massive medical volume from my bag and flung it at him, muscles twanging in pain at the effort. It flew halfway and thumped down in a sprawl of bent pages. He leaned over, tilting his head and read the spine.

"'_Of The Construction and Life of the Brain_,' " he read out and paused, an arrested look upon his drawn face. "Watson, where did you get this?"

"Where did I - You know it's from yourself! You wrote that I would find it 'clarifying, as it concerns me!'? That 'the heart is where the brain is!' " I choked. "Really, Holmes, you are too cruel."

He catapulted from his chair and snatched up the book. I took a half step back, and he flung me an irritated glance. "Pray, do not concern yourself, I beg you! I will not approach you again without your permission, you have my word! But, let's see… " He turned the book over, ran a finger along the spine, sniffed at the pages, and then plucked forth the crumbled bookmark that I had thrust so wrathfully between the volume's pages. "Ah ha!"

"What is it?"

"I did not send you this book. I can certainly tell you who did, though.

"Go on then," I said sceptically.

"It hardly needs explaining. Nonetheless – the binding is a relatively cheap one, Morocco-grained cloth with a simple block print of the title and author on the front and spine, and so is indicative of an English book publisher. By the subject matter, it is one that works in small-run translated works for the medical profession. An area of small interest to the general public. Hmm. No publisher's mark, however. But the scent of snuff tobacco clings to the pages, particularly...Ah, these pages."

He opened the book to the chapter concerning the amygdala, brushed a finger between the leaves and rubbed his fingers. "Yes. Gawith Hoggarth Tobacconists. That particular brand, as well as the note tells me exactly who sent this volume. _Obvious._" Holmes glanced up, a particularly feral smile on his face.

"Tell me, Doctor – did you receive another visitor, besides Mrs. Hudson and Hopkins? A man in his thirties, conservatively dressed, dark-haired, green-eyed, and Sphinx-like in his unbearable smugness?"

"Why, yes," I said in bewilderment. "You've described him to perfection! He's the only man I've ever met who's even more infuriating than you upon first acquaintance, Holmes! Who is he?"

"My brother."

"Your brother – ?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "My interfering sibling! Older. Fatter. Mycroft. I told you about him once before..."

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mycroft! He works in government. He arranged the surgery and attending physician for me. As a favour, a large one. I dread the repayment of it." Holmes' eyes scanned quickly down the opened book, stopped, and scanned once more slowly. "And it appears I may owe him even more. Damn his omniscient ways. I wish I'd been an only child... "

I clenched my hands. "Why in hell would he send me that book? With such a note?"

"His note, not mine. Did he introduce himself? I thought not. He knew that you would make that mistake. I sign myself S.H., not Holmes."

"But, WHY?"

At my roar, Holmes met my eyes squarely. "To provoke you. To infuriate you enough that you would come here and face me, Doctor."

I swallowed. "I did observe, when he visited, that he and you have a similar talent for manipulation. A fine family trait, that. And so, here I am." I stepped forward and gripped the back of the settee, knees trembling with a sudden weakness. Holmes noticed and checked himself before he moved to help.

"Doctor Watson. Please, sit before you collapse." He moved cautiously back towards the bow window to keep his distance as I moved around and fell, more than sat, on the horsehair cushions. "Truly, Doctor, I am glad to see you, whatever the reason."

I suddenly felt unutterably weary. "Holmes. I would like to believe what you say, but... In the past, though you have not outright lied, you have certainly left me in the dark, and failed to tell me... things. You seem to think most people are idiots or – or tools to be used. I would like to think that, based on your previous desire to be a friend – Well, don't I deserve to know the truth?"

His face closed. He rubbed a hand over his tired face in a quick, nervous gesture. "Watson, you could have asked the physician about the surgery that was done – "

"The surgery was a success – in spite of everything, I'm alive. But he couldn't give me any clear answers, only said that he didn't have 'clearance' to release the information. Stop evading, Holmes. It is not just my heart that I need to know about! Your brother was right to provoke this confrontation, I admit it. I must know the truth."

His lips compressed. "The story is not short, Watson."

"Tell it anyway."

"And you want to hear it? From my lips? Despite – your fear?"

"I think it can hardly come from anyone else. The responsibility is yours, Holmes."

A spasm crossed his face at the word 'responsibility.' He abruptly sat on the arm of the armchair, buried his face in his hands briefly then dragged his unkempt hair back from his face. My steady regard seemed to unnerve him, and he began in a halting manner, very unlike his usual assured self.

"Watson, I do not wish to press you, but I would like to leave the matter of my extra... you asked me at Bart's whether you had a real heart, and what had happened. I would like to start there first. It's the easier part of the story."

A small thrill of fear ran through me, but I nodded my assent. Holmes took a deep breath, caught my eye and began his tale.

* * *

><p>Notes:<br>From the Weekly Imager, 1878, leader column. _**The Shadowy Governmental Laboratories Beneath Our Streets!**_  
>Walking the streets of our <strong>fair metropolis<strong>, it is _inconceivable_ to imagine that as honest citizens tread the cobbles, under their very feet _**unspeakable acts**_ are being committed! We speak of nothing less than the _secret testing rooms_ of the government, hidden like a cancer within the **heart of London**!  
><strong>This reporter<strong> has seen for himself the _bandaged figures_ exiting the gates of **St. Bart's Hospital,** ostensibly recovering heroes from the Afghan War. But this does not account for rumours of the _**tunnels**_, the **secret **_**laboratories**_ beneath the hospital's newest wing. It does not explain the _peculiar smells_ drifting from grates in the hospital grounds, nor the _**strange howls**_ emanating at night. Indeed, should one **believe** the staff of the hospital…

* * *

><p>Notes from the author:<p>

**St Bart's** - St. Bart's has been on the same site since the twelfth century. It is on the fringes of both the Roman and Anglo-Saxon cities, so it isn't inconceivable that there could be sewers and tunnels pre-dating the building of the Hospital, though they would not be in very good repair. The current buildings, apart from the church of St. Bartholomew the Less, are all relatively modern (Georgian and later.) The Priory of St. Bartholomew the Great, which was founded in 1123 to manage the Hospital, and all its lands, passed to Lord Chancellor Richard Rich during the Reformation, and Rich demolished most of the existing monastic buildings. This might be a good point for anyone wanting to make a secret space under the Hospital to have started tunnelling, since a great deal of work was going on. Another possible point for such a venture would be in the 18th century when the mediaeval buildings were demolished. For further information, search [medical museums, or history of St. Barts].

**Laocoon** - Laocoon was an impious Trojan priest of Neptune, who tried to warn the Trojans against accepting the horse sent to their city, and was destroyed by Apollo, who sent two serpents to kill him. "Do not trust the Horse, Trojans / Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts." The statue is quite wonderfully evocative, with serpents writhing around his despairing figure.

**Gawith Hoggarth Tobacconists - **still in business for all your tobacco and snuff needs. Well, maybe not snuff.

**General** - a chapter that reveals a bit more. You know, I really have to wonder why everyone thinks Study in Scarlet is so wonderful! There's no action per say, except a struggle at the end. Except we love it for bringing us Holmes and Watson, yeah? Still, it is just talk, talk, deduct, detect, insult the police...


	5. Your Life Pulsing Under My Finger

_**A Study in Slime Revisited**_

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime_, by LaClarity at Wordpress

**Part 5**

_* Upon the Nature of Humanity * Diagram of an Accident * Broken *_

_* Holmes' Skills Fail Him *_

_* The Procedure * The Maker Revealed * The Great Western Railway Co. *_

_* A Finger on the Pulse * Show me *_

* * *

><p>Holmes held my gaze like a snake charming its panicked quarry. In his smooth tenor voice he began, doing his best to convince me of the truth in his words as I had requested.<p>

"You have a heart. You have always had a heart, Watson, barring a few frantic moments in that surgical tent in Afghanistan, when your bullet-pierced one was removed, and your clockwork heart inserted."

I turned my face away in pain at his words, but his voice pursued me, rising in volume.

"You shake your head in denial of this, but do _listen_ to me! If what you are pleased to call an 'inhuman machine' performs the _same function_ as a heart, namely the regulation and flood of blood throughout your system, then who are you to disagree? Really, I would think a doctor of medicine - particularly an Army doctor who has performed amputations, and seen those amputees walking and fighting again with the aid of mechanical limbs - would know better. No one calls those brave soldiers unnatural or… monstrous.' He paused, eyes intent on my face. "A functional vascular organ resides behind those ribs. Let us not quibble over a matter of materials. Doctor John Watson has a heart."

He paused, apparently waiting for my interjection. I remained silent, considering his stumbling over the word, 'monstrous'. It was true that I did feel more machine than man, and that all my finer emotions and claim to humanity had been carelessly dropped in some bloody refuse bucket on that horrible day of the battle of Maiwand. The feeling had been compounded when Murray had deserted me in horror at my new inhumanity. I was touched that Holmes felt my abominable mechanism to be the equal of a natural heart, although I could not believe it myself. Surely it was more than a matter of _function._

"What happened – well, I cannot say where the trouble began precisely at this juncture, though my investigation is proceeding. Suffice it to say, the mechanical heart you received was a faulty one."

I choked a laugh involuntarily at the irony, and Holmes lifted an eyebrow at me before continuing in a serious tone.

"You were chasing that petty criminal Thorpe, straining your system to the utmost. Really, had I known to what lengths you would go to apprehend this fellow, I would have insisted Inspector Hopkins stay by the gate and kept you by my side."

I flushed. "It does seem foolhardy in retrospect," I muttered. My insane desire to impress Holmes by catching his man had completely backfired. Holmes' fine lips curved up slightly to see my discomfort. He cleared his throat.

"Your exertions produced enough stimulation that the homoeostatic device switched off, as it was designed to, and your heart continued beating on its own. Most unfortunately, the heart mechanism currently used in clinical tests by the Army is capable only of maintaining a regular beat, not the rapid pace needed to meet the demands of a man racing pell-mell after a criminal on foot, or even – what was it – a purloined gas-man's tall-bicycle?"

A corner of my mouth quivered in response to this weak raillery. "Yes. I just snatched it and ran. A fine figure I must have made, trying to clamber up."

"Well." He waved this away and continued in a hectoring tone. "Watson, following your time in the Army, did you not notice how regular your pulse was? You have never looked into the mechanics of your fascinating device– and you a doctor! Well, there is no point in reproaching you further for this lapse. So long as it was wound up properly, your heart continued beating as regularly as a metronome, neither sped by excitement, nor slowed by apathy. I must suppose you to have been too sunk in needless misery to have realized. However, this is beside the point. Your heart could not keep up. Hence, an additional amount of stress was placed on your system, as you strove to catch Thorpe. Then - you had a fall."

Holmes withdrew a cigarette from his silver case, struck a match and lit it. Expelling a stream of blue smoke, he examined the glowing tip with assumed interest and continued.

"I shall not bore you with the reactions of Inspector Hopkins and I upon finding you lying crumpled on the cobblestones. Enough to say that we feared the worst, that Thorpe had killed you. Upon discovering you were still alive, but insensible and incapable of being roused, we immediately found transportation and moved you to Baker Street. I was sure that it was not serious enough to warrant a doctor's visit."

I stirred restlessly. Hearing Holmes' account of my missing time was disturbing, but I felt that he was still being evasive. I opened my mouth for a question, but he raised a slim white hand to forestall it.

"Not yet, Doctor. Allow me to finish. You would not awaken. Several hours passed, and I grew extremely concerned that your involvement in my case had caused you serious harm. I did not realize at the time that your tumble had not only jarred both the pseudo-myelin connections running from the homoeostatic device to your valves, but also loosened a pin connecting the mainspring of your heart's key to a flywheel, which in turn maintains the regularity of your heart beat."

"Holmes, how do you know all this about mechanical hearts? It seems to me that -"

"I am not done!" he flashed at me, more from tension than irritation. He took a few quick, jerky strides to the fireplace and whirled to face me. "The damage was not immediately apparent, as I said. Doubtless the knock on the head was quite severe enough to put you out for a long time, but the lessening of the function of your heart – the intermittent flow of blood – this no doubt exacerbated your condition. I did not realize…"

With a quick jerk, he flung the cigarette into the hearth, bright sparks spraying out. His white-knuckled hand gripped the mantelpiece. His mouth was taut, his expression grim.

"Once your body was at rest and no longer providing the endogenous stimulation to your heart on its own, the homoeostatic device was to have taken over, and begun to regulate your heart's functioning once more, powered by your clockwork mechanism. _It did not._ Several connections had been loosened enough that instead of a constant stream of stimulation, it was as if a spark were trying to jump across a chasm.

"Picture a Wimshurst machine, if you will. There is a distance between the two discharge electrodes of such a device which can only be jumped when there is enough electricity. Normally, your pulse current would run as if along an insulated wire. However, with the breakages it was intermittent – like the Wimshurst machine the impulses had to jump a gap. This caused skips in your beat, palpitations and arrhythmia. I didn't _see_. Your key performed as well as it could have under the circumstances, but with every turn, every beat the spring tension wound down that much more, until a week's tension had been used up in just a few short hours. It did not help that the aortal pump was of inferior materials – the cogs were well nigh worn to stumps!"

My face felt numb. "Holmes," I interjected, "You cannot blame yourself. You are not a medical man; the damage had been done long before I ever met you. But –"

"I do blame myself, Doctor, very much. Not only did my powers of observation utterly desert me in the hour of greatest need, not only did my work place you in a situation where the weakened condition of your heart was worsened, but also… afterwards, when you awoke… I am a fool."

He loosened his grip on the mantle and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, looking down. I watched carefully, heart, amazingly, speeding up a trifle—and how had I not noticed this lack before – and said hoarsely,

"Our – the discussion. You wanted us to be partners, in all things." Waking in Holmes' room had been strange and wonderful, our argument both illuminating and upsetting. Holmes had wanted me to become his partner; it would benefit us both, he had said. Holmes had wanted me to trust him wholeheartedly – _ha!_ – but without explaining things fully. _Things like cephalopod arms_.

"Yes. Make no mistake, Watson, I do still wish for us to be partners, but, if under the circumstances... In any case you awoke, unwell. We argued. You exerted yourself unduly during our dispute. The key had wound down, and for all intents and purposes, you had a heart attack. There was no pulse, no function whatsoever. You collapsed."

"You caught me up. I do remember. In those cold –"

He thrust a hand out again to cut off my rising tone.

"I will get to that, Watson! I caught you, and it was then that I finally, _finally_ understood the problem. I should have seen it sooner! There really is no excuse for such idiocy! Winding the key did not help the case, it would only click over for a few beats and stop again. I kept winding it up, only to have it stop after a few turns… I began pulmonary massage to assist the pumping action of your heart.

"And then… something broke. The pin holding the tension of the spring parted, I could feel the snap when I turned the key. My God, I hope never to… There was blood running from the key socket. I could scarcely turn the key for the slickness. There was no respiration, and I feared that without air, there would be irreparable brain damage. Watson, I forced breath into your lungs. I pumped your heart. I turned the key by main force, sixty clicks in a minute, but no matter what I did, you… "

Holmes' voice trailed off strangely, and he swallowed. I cannot say but that I felt some pity for him. All of his extraordinary effort, and yet he had had to watch his subject slip further and further away. As a doctor, one grows inured to it to some extent. For Holmes, it must have been a wrenching experience. He forced a smile, dreadful to see on his pale, thin face.

"Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson was near to hand, and sent for Inspector Hopkins. All three of us together were able to get you to St. Bart's, where there was –"

"Yes, Holmes, what was that place? I'd never seen such a ward in my life! No windows, obviously top–notch care but – rather too much like a tomb. Or a prison."

"It is a private ward. It is a newer wing, built, I believe, after your time there. Generally it is used for people of considerable means – but on occasion it is used by those who wish to have complete confidentiality and privacy."

I blinked. "How did you manage to arrange for my care in such a place?"

Holmes managed another quick flash of a smile. "Really, at this pace, I shall never be done. Therefore, to be brief: Mycroft, my busybody brother, was able to arrange the room, the surgery, and an attending physician. As a considerable favour to me. I dread the repayment of it. Doubtless there will be a few little tasks he has for me, being too damnably indolent to attend to them himself –"

I snorted. "I cannot imagine your brother _not_ holding all the strings, somehow. The things he knows... frightening."

"You have some insight into him after such a brief meeting, then. Good. Beware of Mycroft, Doctor Watson. I mistrust his motives – but I am getting off track." He took a quick breath.

* * *

><p><em>"His condition is stable at the moment, but it could deteriorate any moment, Mr. Holmes. We must operate as soon as possible."<em>

_Holmes flicked the surgeon a scornful glance and returned his gaze to the still figure. Dr. Watson was lying propped on his side on a steel-framed examination table while an automaton rhythmically turned the broken key, mopping the trickle of blood periodically. A Higgingson Sealed Syringe was being replenished, the flow through the ball valve closed off temporarily as another automaton attached yet another glass bulb of the vital fluid to the apparatus. An India rubber hose ran from the contraption to a needle embedded in Watson's arm, disturbingly like some serpent draining the life from him, instead of providing much-needed blood. _

_"I am perfectly aware of the need for haste, Doctor. We are awaiting a package from my brother, without which any surgery is pointless."_

_"Mr. Holmes, we have been trained in the new procedures. The replacement equipment is ready; there is no need to delay." _

_The surgeon shifted his feet. Holmes' gaze never wavered from the insensate form on the table. Watson was a waxen effigy, no movement besides his breathing betraying life. Without the Doctor's personality to animate his features, it was easier to see how careworn the Doctor looked, how thin he still was after his weeks of recovery at Baker Street. How vulnerable. Holmes' lip curled at the surgeon's words._

_"No need? Watson's equipment should not have failed at all! I find I cannot put any trust in something the government has manufactured! No, we are awaiting the prototype. It is infinitely superior."_

_"Superior, Mr. Holmes? But you say it is a prototype. How do you know it will work?"_

_Though Holmes never looked at the man, the surgeon quailed at the frozen expression of fury on his face. Holmes' eyes burned, but his voice was low and careful._

_"It will work. I know, because I designed it. Go and prepare the operating instruments. I will be with you shortly."_

_With a muttered excuse, the surgeon left the room. As he left, he thought he heard a murmur, but did not stop in his haste to leave the tense figure standing near his companion._

_"It will be repaired as promised, Watson. I will not fail you."_

* * *

><p>"Holmes, you were there? But you are not a doctor!"<p>

He sprang up excitedly and began pacing, eyes flashing and gesturing with quick motions of his white, slender hands. I sat back a bit more deeply in the cushions of the settee, trembling slightly, but he was oblivious to my presence in his agitation.

"Yes, me! I had to be there; no one could know the case better. It was I who designed - but, as I was saying –" he eyed me pointedly for my interruption.

"We performed two surgeries – for the first, the doctor and I went in through the back where your key socket exits to rejoin the pseudo-myelin sheathing to your heart and nerves, enabling re-enervation through your homoeostatic device.

"We were able to introduce natalizumabelin – a myelinator that I concocted some time ago. This assisted in a proper integration between the mechanical and physical parts of your body and in particular the nerve connections. It and the cyclosporin will prevent rejection and degradation. Some of the damage was deep – you will doubtless need repeat injections, possibly for the rest of your life. Your pseudo-myelin connectors need not have come away at all, had the Army used the instructions in my monograph. Every time you had an accident, even a small one, you were in danger of death from disconnections."

He shook his head and paced a bit more quickly. Fingers flashing in the air in excitement, he continued the story with a seeming air of pleasure in the problem I had presented.

* * *

><p><em>"Ah. There." The light of the reflectors glinted off the spring, as the surgeon help it up in his forceps, then placed it carefully on the tray held by an automaton. "Now, let's see about these internal cuts," he murmured to himself, and slotted his magnifying lens over his right eye. Swiftly he went to work with sutures, and the welling of blood slowed. "Good."<em>

_"Quickly, then, Doctor." Holmes looked up from his close examination of the broken spring piece, and stepped forward, holding the new key socket mechanism. The surgeon squinted through his lens at the blaze of the polished metal._

_"What on earth is that – that's not brass!"_

_"Titanium." Holmes' eyes gleamed. He passed over the wealth of metal, and the surgeon quickly went to work, attaching connections and nerves at lightning speed. _

_"Fortunate man," commented the surgeon. The brightness of Homes' eyes dulled._

_"I don't think he will feel the same way, Doctor. I have severely miscalculated several things about Doctor Watson. Here, allow me." He took up the syringe held by a waiting automaton, and leaned in to carefully inject the contents. "He won't agree that he is lucky, but with my prototype, his heart will perform as his body requires – it will speed up when he needs to run, it will slow to a normal pace when he is calm. He will no longer need to have his key wound up every other day – once a month should do it, unless he has been going full-tilt for long stretches at a time. He can enjoy a normal lifestyle."_

_"Is that why there's an indicator on the key here?"_

_"Yes. A brief inspection will tell him when it needs winding. Watson, who has been doing that for you?" He addressed his unconscious associate in a low tone. "The mechanical maid? You might have asked me, you know. I would have been pleased to do it. At any time. But perhaps you felt – well, we all have our pride." He wiped a smear of blood from the smooth pale skin._

_"There, Mr. Holmes. All ready, and closed up. Will you - ?"_

_He nodded. He lifted the edge of the inset key socket up. He placed his slim fingers on the elegantly scrolled metalwork of the titanium half-moon, turned it several times, quickly and smoothly, then folded the key back down until it was flat and flush in the socket once more. The surgeon leaned quickly over with a stethoscope and listened intently. Holmes paid no heed, utterly secure in the working of his creation. He merely placed two fingers over Watson's carotid, feeling the pulse of his continued life beneath his fingertips. The surgeon straightened, eyes crinkling in a smile, but shaking his head._

_"We must proceed. The heart mechanism does sound poor, as you said. Let us turn him onto these pads – there. Mr. Holmes, allow me to congratulate you. I am sorry I ever had doubts about your work. The key device is working perfectly. A most superior and elegant design._ _"_

_Holmes arranged Watson's head on the pads, adjusting the oxygen mask more securely. His voice sounded a touch wistful, but his hands were steady in their task._

_"I thought so, too. "_

* * *

><p>"But, Holmes… <em>your<em> prototype? What have you to do with the Army's test trials of mechanical hearts?"

He paused in his perambulation, and clasped his wrists behind his back. "I see I must disclose all. Pray, do not ever tell anyone what I am telling you, for it is a state secret."

I considered Mycroft, who gave the impression of being a species of predator masquerading as a civil servant, and agreed quickly. I would not cross him for the world.

"Watson, I have been involved since the beginning. Stamford may have told you that I was a bit of an itinerant student who used the labs on occasion. In truth, before my work as a detective, I was a consultant on matters concerning biochemistry and bio-mechanics for the government. Tedious stuff, really. All Mycroft's doing, again. Really, having a sibling who is even more intelligent than oneself only leaves one open to all kinds of brotherly manipulation."

He sighed in mock consternation, but brightened. Again he began to pace, hand clasping wrist behind his back, legs scissoring in long strides. Now that he was expounding on science and away from uncomfortable emotional topics, Holmes' voice was faster and assured.

"You know what hurdles the medical community has had to overcome in the transplantation of limbs. It is an imperfect science and one where failure is frequent, but still, the use of mechanical limbs has long been established. We have mechanical arms, legs, ears, so why not mechanical organs?"

"Well, not for livers, or intestinal work at this stage, but certainly, I can see how Great Britain's technology could be adapted for eyes… perhaps even kidneys someday... " I mused.

"Exactly so! The main problem is that of integration into the nervous system. Without the proper biochemical interface, the organ will be nothing more than a lump of non-functioning metal, and the patient will be dead!"

"Indeed," I muttered, and he cast an apologetic glance my way.

He went on with absolutely no modesty, "But, in my own distinct areas, I _am_ a genius. The problem was intriguing enough that I complied with Mycroft's request. I wrote several papers, consulted with some mechanical valve makers and metal workers at a Bristol foundry, and with them built the first prototype heart and key. The engineering of the mechanism was good – but where I truly excel is not in the mechanical, but the chemical. I designed the pseudo-myelin sheathing, and worked out the proper chemical agent to help it bond to the existing nerves. That the Army failed to utilize my design as proposed – that is what I find unforgivable. From what I discovered in Leeds... "

His eyes flashed, causing my shoulders to stiffen in apprehension. With an effort, he relaxed, breathed out slowly, and glanced down at me. His gaze travelled up from my feet, to my face, then returned to linger on the bulk of the linen bandages wrapped around my chest under my shirt. The quickened rise and fall of my respiration seemed to affect him in some way. He licked dry lips and turned away to the burner on the breakfast table, turning up the flame so that the kettle steamed and bubbled even more. He looked down at it for a moment, head low.

"Having ensured that your heart would not fail you a second time, and having pumped a sufficiently large amount of feotal blood into your system to counteract the blood loss and shock of the spring breakage and subsequent surgery, we began the second operation."

He turned to face me across the room, but his eyes were inward-gazing, brooding.

"Through the stethoscope, I could hear by a strange click and grating sound that there was another problem, this time within your heart itself. The aortal valve was on the verge of complete malfunction. I feared that another break-down would be beyond my skills to repair. I had designed the mechanism to be maintenance free – otherwise, why bother? You cannot install port doors into people's chests to make things convenient for doctors, or for engineers too lazy or stupid to design a better machine. Although, now I think on it…"

He paused, shook the apparently intriguing thought away and went on in a low tone, tense.

* * *

><p><em>"Christ, what a piece of work," commented the physician. "Those Army doctors may as well have been Smithfield butchers! That scar is almost as bad as the one on his shoulder. A veteran, is he?"<em>

_"Yes," Holmes replied absently, wiping Watson's chest with Lister's Carbolic Solution. "An Afghan rifle bullet caused the initial damage. Hardly less devilish in its work than the Army surgeons, I think. But he pulled through then - didn't you, Watson? You can do no less now. There. I am ready. Do you have the retractors at hand? Good. I'll make the incision here, trans-apically. Be sure the tube is ready."_

_He looked up, checked the oxygen breather, the pulse metronome, the blood circulatory pump. He grasped the scalpel firmly, placed it on the skin delicately. A rivulet of blood rose from the tip, and he paused, closed his eyes, and raised the instrument._

_"Mr. Holmes? Are you all right? Shall I take over?"_

_Holmes shook his head in a quick jerk. He looked briefly at Watson's wan face and focused again. He raised the gleaming scalpel, and pressed the blade into flesh in a quick stroke._

_With the surgical operating tube inserted, Holmes and the physician worked quickly. The seal of the aortal valve was quickly pried out, and a light shone down into the mechanism revealed the problem._

_"My God! Is the Army mad? That valve wheel – there are barely any cogs left on that one!"_

_"Not mad, but when I discover why they have been using such shoddy materials... Doctor, take care. That one is – ah, damn it! Quickly, grasp that piece that has broken away!"_

_Working with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, and all the speed Holmes' clever violinist's fingers could muster, the worn brass cogs were taken out and replaced with more titanium. A new aortal valve seal was placed carefully, and the inner workings of Watson's heart were sealed away again from Holmes' cool grey eyes. The physician reached for the tube._

_"Finished. Shall I close him up, Mr. Holmes?"_

_"Just a moment."_

_He scrutinized the cast brass of Watson's heart, grey eyes wide and fascinated, blinked and looked again. "G. W. R. Co.," he said softly, and the corners of his mouth lifted._

* * *

><p>Holmes' sharp cheekbones had a streak of that odd violet I had noticed before. He paused in his narration. I forgot my own craven fear as I watched him. He appeared to be experiencing an intense emotion. "Holmes, what is it? Was there another problem?"<p>

He shook his head, as if to shake away a memory, dark hair tumbling. "Watson. If I may come closer? I must illustrate… an important point."

I swallowed and nodded. He took a careful step towards me, then another. My breath shortened slightly. He noted the rapid pulse in my throat with a slight twist of his lips, but then lifted his eyes to mine.

"Before we removed the tube, I touched one finger to your heart, Watson. I traced the initials of the foundry inscribed there. It was warm with the heat of your blood. I could feel the pulsing click of your life under my bare fingertip."

His voice was quiet. Folding down on one knee, he lifted an arm. His left hand slowly, cautiously reached out, hovered over the bandage covering my heart and rested with no pressure to cause pain. I held utterly still. He gave me a faint smile.

"Listen. Mycroft sent you that tome about the brain, but the message was also for me. A reminder. The heart – the heart is not the seat of all emotion, Watson. It is but a muscle, or a mechanism in your case. All feeling is generated _here_ – " and he brushed his thumb across my forehead, "In the amygdala. Science and logic have found it to be so, and though you don't yet agree, consider where your feelings do come from, Watson. I have seen the depth of your sensitivity and your despair. You know you have emotions, but you must learn to accept that they are _not_ generated _here_." He touched my chest again with infinite care.

He fixed me with his intent grey eyes again, as serious as I had ever seen him. "So, Doctor John H. Watson, I must repeat myself, which I hate to do. Please attend, and do not ever forget. _You have a heart_. Excepting that short time following that brutal surgery, you have always had one. And your heart is real, as real as any one's. You are not more machine than man. You are not abominable. You are not broken, nor will you be again. You have a heart: I have seen it for myself. I touched it. It was... extraordinary."

My breath caught at his even tone, eyes never leaving his face. His words were so unadorned and matter-of-fact that the truth underlying them could not be denied. A rift that had existed in my soul since Murray had completed the work of the Jezail bullet and killed my sense of self-worth, began to close. With his pronouncement, Sherlock Holmes, the monster, had re-made me – no, if I understood his story fully, he had made me. I had died in Afghanistan under an Army doctor's knife. With the heart he had designed, I could begin to leave behind the half-life I had been leading, and begin anew.

"I believe you. It's – just... "

Without thought, I reached up and covered the cool hand resting on my chest. All the tension seemed to leave his frame at once. Slowly, he bowed his head until his forehead rested on the tip of my shoulder, hiding his face. A small tremor shook his frame briefly.

"Holmes," I murmured, and he stilled at the sound of my voice. "Don't take on so. I begin to understand. I – it's hard. It will take some time for what you said to sink in. Don't." I stroked the back of his hand with my thumb, lightly, repeatedly.

"Watson," he said almost inaudibly. "_Do not_. I am to blame. For so much. Our argument. Thorpe. The whole thing! I am the one who has endangered our partnership, and you. Had I not become bored with the project, I might have been able to review what the Army had intended, to check the manufacturing, the metal tolerances... You nearly... "

"Yes, I can see that, certainly. Of _course_, you should have been standing over boxes of parts in some dingy, God-forsaken factory somewhere, with a clipboard and mechanical pencil in hand, ticking off boxes. In fact, didn't Hopkins say that's what you had been doing?" I squeezed his hand, trying to keep my voice light. "Item the first – brass heart key – rejected: Too much verdigris, decorative engraving _quite_ bourgeois. Item the second – clock spring – rejected: Possible recipient- uns'pr'ung hero Doctor John Watson. Item the third – brass heart case – rejected: Dented and knocked about by life... "

Holmes made the most peculiar choked noise, muffled against my shoulder. His shoulders quivered again, but no longer in distress.

"Watson," he exclaimed, raising eyes alive with relief to mine, "You are a wonder. I am gratified you are still on this earth."

"Yes, as am I, now," I agreed, but my own smile faded away. "But Holmes... you have not quite finished."

His hand twitched under mine, and his expression blanked.

"There's more to explain," I continued, inexorably, voice becoming harder. "Before... my attack, I saw..."

Holmes flushed slightly, then paled again. "In a way I had hoped that you would have forgotten, that you... Could you not…?"

"Not what, Holmes? Not _forget_? Or have put it off as a near-death experience? Holmes, I have had several of those already. It is not an experience one is likely to _forget_." My voice rose. "And I must say, Holmes, when I was struck down by those rifle bullets, and ended up praying for my life in the wretched squalor of that hospital tent – I saw what seemed to be a tunnel of light growing brighter – and Holmes, this is quite important! _Nowhere in that light were there things like octopodes_."

"Ah."

"Yes, _quite_." My face flushed, heart pounding in trepidation, I deliberately leaned forward into his personal space.

He attempted to pull away, trying to maintain a politely interested expression, but I tightened my grip upon his cool hand and maintained a stern eye contact.

"You have said that you wish for us to be partners. When you expressed that desire, you were unwilling to explain why or what might be considered even more _abominable__–_"

He opened his mouth to protest my description, but I cut across him ruthlessly, "Yes, more _abominable_, more _perverse_ than my own clockwork, inhuman heart. I now have more than an inkling, but, Holmes! if we are to go forward as partners, or even if we _don't_ - you must tell me. A full and complete confession. There can be no more evasions, no half-truths, though I know you despise explaining to dullards such as myself. You said you would tell me the _truth_."

"I don't despise giving explanations," he protested. "It just wastes so much time." He caught himself. "I didn't mean that you... "

I expelled a shaky breath. "Never mind that for now! Holmes, I have just had major heart surgery for the second, and I hope fervently, the last time in my life. I have nothing but time to waste at the moment. Well?"

He wrenched out of my grip and stood quickly, striding from one side of the room to the other. He spun back to face me, chest rising and falling quickly, face mottled again with the peculiar flush. I locked gazes with him, fisted my hands on my thighs, and spoke as with as firm a voice as my shattered composure allowed.

_"Show me."_

* * *

><p>Author's notes:<p>

**Blood transfusions** - As an experiment in nausea, try reading up on the history of blood transfusions. It made my arms itch, as though my veins were trying to burrow deeper away from sight. Who needs horror films, when history and truth provides such a feast? No wonder time travelers' get inoculations before they go back. Incidentally, the Higginson Sealed Syringe is still in use today with fewer brass valves and more plastic. The use has been adapted for enemas, however.

**Victorian Surgery** - I freely admit to having only a cursory idea of how historical surgical procedures are done. I comfort myself with the knowledge that, based on that disgusting treatise on the history of transfusions, the antiseptic procedures instituted by George Lister, the then-new work of Louis Pasteur, and the existing examples of surgical equipment and rooms, the Victorians had little idea about it either. I mean, really. Sawdust on the floor, no rubber gloves yet, and mucky aprons and street clothes to operate in? Yuck. Thank god for steampunk doctoring. Isn't fiction grand?

A tip of the hat to the doctors of the 19th century, particularly Lister. We wouldn't have made it here without you.

**Tall Bike** - invented in 19th century Chicago as a way to light street lamps, average height was well over six feet tall.

Well, an overly long and overly technical chapter, which makes a change from all the angst and doubt of the last two. Right? RIGHT? If you made it to the end of these notes, it's to either see if I left my address so you find and strangle me (I didn't), or because you found that unexpectedly (like me) you are a techno-geek. SURPRISE! and welcome.

All right, it is totally true that besides the angst of Watson in the original story by LaClarity, one of the things I liked and wanted to know more about was Watson's heart. How would it be possible to install a clockwork? Would the key stick out? How how HOW? You see steampunkers with clockwork arms and hands everywhere, but no one talks abot how they are plausible. The Difference Engine, which is the most brilliant book of steampunk ever doesn't even attempt it. Neither does the anime Steamboy. You know why, folks? It's ballocks. Pure fantasy. I looked up the history of transplantion as side-note to blood transfusions, and that is just as bad. Animals parts? Check.

This chapter is pretty much the result of my fevered imagination.


	6. Intimidation

**A Study in Slime Revisited**

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime, _by LaClarity at Wordpress

**Part ****6**

_* __Hiding in the Chintz * Holmes is intimidated* Holmes is Interrupted * The Doctor is Needed * _

Holmes and I made an odd tableau. I - wan and pained from my surgery, leaning forward on the settee with fists clenched and knuckles white with strain; he - straight-backed and tense, looking for all the world as if I were some terrible creature ready to spring at him. It was _laughable_.

My gaze did not waver from his. I willed him to finally give in to my request for the truth and show me what monstrous modifications had been effected upon his person. No matter my reaction, I had to know. Holmes must have realized my determination, and his lips tightened.

His hands slowly moved to his waistcoat and he began to unfasten the shining buttons. In any other circumstances, I might have enjoyed the sight of Holmes removing his clothing for me. But not like this. I'd had fantasies about undressing Holmes, but never in such excruciating circumstances. I swallowed in discomfort, and his hands stilled.

"Doctor, perhaps – perhaps you are not well enough for this. Your last reaction to my anomalies was – "

"To hell with your delaying, Holmes!" I barked. My nerves were stretched to snapping. Further delay could not be brooked. "Why are you so damned reluctant? You could tell Mrs. Hudson about your – your appendages! Why not _me_?"

He turned from me toward the window embrasure, and clutched at the floral curtains. In contrast to his tense demeanour, his voice was cool. "Mrs. Hudson is not in as fragile a state as you are, Doctor."

"Bollocks!" I spat, and he half-pivoted to face me at my sharp tone. "If you can't or won't expose yourself to me, then pack up your things and get the hell out! Or better yet, just leave and I'll send your things on!" Briefly one part of my mind wondered how I would get on at Baker Street without Holmes' half the rent, but I ruthlessly suppressed the thought.

He closed his eyes and leaned his shoulder against the wall, pressing the side of his head into the curtains. His hands dropped and hung limply at his sides. "As you wish then, Doctor."

There was an interminable pause, while I waited. His eyes slitted open and he looked sidelong at me.

"Well?" He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

"Well, _what_?" I asked. "Holmes, if this is another attempt to deter me... "

Holmes craned his head around to look over his shoulder, and his face darkened. Was he embarrassed? "Ah. Your pardon, Doctor. Look more closely, I will not approach."

I did, staring at what little I could see of his back, half-turned as he was. Was there a movement? No... wait... yes, the floral pattern printed on the black chintz seemed to _shift_. The silhouette of an octopod arm seemed to waver in and out of focus, as the flowers slowly writhed on its surface. A second silhouette slid down, half-hidden behind his leg. Against the dark curtain and the black fabric of Holmes' trousers, I could scarcely trace the shape. The tip reached around and twined around his ankle, as if shy of my wide-eyed stare.

There was a noise in my head, as if of distant howls or roaring. I quickly shook my head to dispel it, and swallowed thickly. My heart pounded. "How... ?" I began, before my voice dried up. Holmes grimaced.

"Protective chromaticism, Doctor. The appendages change colour to blend in and hide. Apatetic protection is an instinctive reaction in Cephalopoda when threatened, and being that my... limbs seem to have a mind of their own at times – well, intimation was a factor in the reaction."

I gaped, and brushed aside this absurdity. I intimidated Holmes? Impossible. "No, Holmes, that was not what I meant to ask."

He waited, and I tried again, gesturing helplessly. "No. I mean – How do you _bear _it?"

His mouth twisted slightly, and he looked over his shoulder again briefly. A third arm wound out to the window embrasure and swiftly twined around his silver cigarette case. In the bright light of the late morning, I could see that it was smooth of texture on top, tapering to a flexible tip, and lined on its underside with round cups. It curved back and brought the case to Holmes' right hand. He took out a cigarette with a pretence of ease, and tapped it a few times.

"Doctor Watson, I could ask the same thing of you. How do _you _bear it?"

Before I could ponder the full meaning of his question, the jangling of a bell below made me start. Holmes' head shot up, alarm crossing his features, and he quickly replaced the cigarette in the case. He passed tit back to an appendage which carefully laid it on the window ledge. Downstairs a confusion of voices could be heard, and then footsteps began ascending. Holmes' appendages retracted towards his body, flattening out as they disappeared behind his back to wrap around him beneath his shirt. His fingers flew over his waistcoat buttons, refastening the last one just as there came a quick knock at our door. Without further preamble, Inspector Hopkins flung open the door and entered in a state of high excitement.

"By God, Hopkins!" burst out Holmes, glaring. "Can you not wait to be invited in?"

"Mr. Holmes! Sir! A constable just flagged me as I was coming to see you, and gave me a message. There's another case! I am assisting Inspector Gregson, and so I thought..." He pulled up abruptly at the sight of me seated on the settee, and then grinned. "Doctor Watson! I am glad to see you are up and about... only... "

He looked from me to Holmes and back again. Then to Holmes' complete astonishment, he leapt forward, grasped my good right arm and tried to tug me up. "Doctor Watson, you are just the man I need! We could use a medical man! Will you come?"

"Have a care, Inspector!" came Holmes' voice, both alarmed and amused. "He's only just been released from the hospital."

But I was already rising, responding to the urgency in Inspector Hopkins' voice. Turning to my desk I pulled out my somewhat dusty medical bag from beneath. A furrow appeared between Holmes' brows as he watched me. "Inspector, do you really require the Doctor on this case?"

Inspector Hopkins gazed at both of us earnestly. "Oh yes, Mr. Holmes. Absolutely.

"You see, the victim is still alive."


	7. The Devil's Trumpet

**A Study in Slime Revisited**

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon _Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime, _by LaClarity at Wordpress

**Part ****7**

_* A Private Hotel * Nana Qui Win * School for Inspectors * Trust * The Maid * __The Devil's Trumpet *_

Holmes was uncharacteristically quiet as we three took an auto-cab. I could feel his eyes upon me, but I ignored him for the most part. I was unsure whether he was annoyed that I had been the one called to the scene, or if he were just relieved at escaping explanations about his true nature. If it were the latter, he was not to be let off so easily. Once he leaned forward as if to speak, caught my eye and turned away to look out the window, lips compressed.

For my part, I avoided brushing against Holmes, and once in the cab I wedged myself in the furthest corner from him. I would not allow myself to be distracted by my uneasiness or the lingering pain from my recent surgery, not when there was a person who needed my help. With the discipline hard-won in Afghanistan, I pushed the fear into a corner of my mind and concentrated on Hopkins, plying him with questions. He could tell me precious little about the victim - a man had been found bleeding, and apparently out of his senses. No, the injuries were not life-threatening. No, Hopkins didn't have his name yet.

It was a relatively quick fifteen minute ride to Hallidays' Private Hotel in Little Green Street. I had expected accommodations in Westminster to be pleasant and expensive, but Halliday's confounded me. The lobby was well-decorated with panelling, gas lighting and fringed pink velvet draperies, but had no seating area or indeed, any furniture. There was no adjoining restaurant or coffee room, merely several shadowy curtained corridors leading away God knew where. The Inspector and I hesitated, but Holmes strode past us directly to what I assumed must be the front desk. The top was covered completely by a louvred screen through which nothing could be seen. The only opening was a metal-lined slot at waist level.

A hand came through the slot, passing Holmes a folded piece of heavy paper. He took it impatiently and thrust it at Hopkins. "We are not here for a room! I believe there's another matter? Police Inspector Hopkins and the doctor are here." A muffled male voice replied, and Holmes bent in to argue in a subdued way with the hidden person.

Hopkins unfolded the paper which looked like a kind of menu of rooms, and went red to his hairline. He quickly passed it off to me, and wiped his hands hurriedly on his trousers. Looking at it, I felt my brows go up. _Well. It was a menu – of a sort. _"I say, Holmes. What kind of establishment is this?"

"What the names advertises – a _private _one," he shot over his shoulder. "Anonymity guaranteed. A fine thing to have so close to the seat of our Parliament, isn't it? Inspector, please show your badge, we are wasting time."

Before the blushing Inspector could reply, a curtain on a corridor parted to reveal the dark uniform of a constable. "Inspector!" he cried. "Sir, come this way. The management don't like people to hang about in the lobby. The room is up this way."

"Thank you, Constable Rance," said Hopkins, and we followed him to the first floor. "How is the victim?"

"Already gone to the hospital, sir. He took a bad turn, couldn't seem to catch his breath for a while, so Inspector Gregson took him on to St. Thomas's."

"Did he say anything of interest?" asked Holmes.

Theconstable looked askance at this nosy stranger, but Hopkins nodded for him to reply. "He weren't speakin' much except nonsense as it was, anyway. Right addled, he was." The man stolidly shrugged, and held open a door.

Hopkins gave me a worried look, but I only said, "It's all right, Inspector. If he's that badly off, perhaps the hospital is the best place for him. Heaven knows, my skills are a trifle out of practice."

Holmes snorted in disapprobation or disagreement, I couldn't be sure which. I gritted my teeth, preferring to stoke my irritation rather than give in to my discomfort at being near him. _Focus on something else, Watson._

The dim gas-lit rooms into which we stepped were large and well-appointed, if a trifle overdone. If a word came to mind to describe the décor, it would be – well, brothel. Fringed heavy draperies blocked all natural light from the windows. A chaise-lounge was covered in yellow satin. An excessively large mirror was set in the ceiling over the bed. My ears began to burn with embarrassment, but Holmes was already striding over to the bed, which had a rumpled salmon-coloured satin coverlet with several large bloodstains upon it. "Everyone, just stay exactly where you are," he barked. "Don't trample any remaining data underfoot, if you please."

Hopkins opened his mouth to protest, but I spoke first. "Holmes! This is not your crime scene, it is Inspector Hopkins'! In case you had forgotten, he is in charge here, and he invited _me_along. Don't be overbearing." With that shot, I walked across the room and jerked open a curtain, flooding the room with light. I looked over in Holmes' direction and froze. "_Oh._"

On the white painted, scroll-edged headboard, something was written in blood, but not in any language I recognized –

_Nana qui win_

Holmes checked an impatient reply at my reprimand and glanced at what had caught my attention. He studied it intently for a moment, leaning in, face nearly pressed into the bloody smears. He stood straight, and said in a more cordial tone, "Indeed. Very well then, Inspector, if you don't mind, I'd like to offer my assistance on _your _case." He looking scathingly at the well-trodden carpeting and couldn't resist adding, "It's not like there's likely to be much evidence left on the floor after a herd of constables was set loose in here."

Hopkins cast me a speaking glance, though I couldn't guess whether he was appreciative of my intervention on his behalf, or humiliated. He joined Holmes at the bed, with the aspect of a pupil with his teacher.

"Look carefully at the indentations upon the sheets and bedspread. The victim sat heavily upon the edge of the bed – see how the sheet is pulled down just there. What do you make of the coverlet and sheets?"

"He lay back, or was pushed back onto the bed. The attacker cut him – looks like on the torso, and around the head. He fought and thrashed around, so the bedclothes are jumbled up." Hopkins looked up at Holmes.

"You are coming along, Inspector. Let me point out a few items of interest, then. Your first surmise was correct – someone laid him back on the bed. Here -" he touched the foot of the bed, "Loose dirt grains, not smeared or dragged. Fallen from his shoes, which were not removed. From this we can ascertain that his feet were picked up and carefully placed on the bed by another. As to the blood – well, Doctor Watson can help elucidate as our medical expert, I believe?" His voice was acerbic.

I glared to cover my discomfort at being asked to approach. Tightening my lips, I joined them, being careful to keep the hapless Hopkins between Holmes and me. I touched one small spot with a finger. "These spots where his torso would have lain – they are dry now, so he must have been lying still a while. The shape – like drips running down to collect. The injuries here were superficial. They are too small to indicate significant blood loss. Not life-threatening, certainly. But then – the slight smearing. He did move at some point, when the blood was almost dry."

Holmes was watching me intently over Hopkins' head. Was that an approving look in his cool eyes? He gave me a small nod. "Hopkins, tell me about the pillow."

Hopkins swallowed, but apparently had absorbed what I'd said. He touched the large dark stain running down the pillow. "Well, like I said, sir. Head cut, or neck, but... not fatal."

"Not his neck," confirmed Holmes.

"But heavy bleeding. Still damp, this patch. He didn't move much until later, like the doctor said. And... the stain is on the right side of the pillow so… his ear or scalp."

"Much better, Hopkins. And the writing?"

All four of us – detective, doctor, inspector and constable studied the gory message. Hopkins ventured, "Well, it looks foreign. Isn't '_qui' _a French word?"

"Yes, it means_ 'that'_. But '_win'_? And '_Nana'_– I can't make heads nor tails of it," I confessed. "Some people refer to their grandmothers as Nana. 'Grandmother that wins?'"

"That would be 'grand-mère qui gagne'" said Holmes, a furrow between his brows. "But more than that, the style and method is significant. Cursive script – the attacker had plenty of fresh blood to accomplish that. From the head wound, doubtless. It is written in a shaky hand as well." He pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the macabre message again. The challenge of a puzzle had caught his attention fully, and the policemen and I could only watch as he moved swiftly and with purpose through the room. Hopkins pulled out his notebook and pencil.

Holmes muttered aloud as he searched. He rifled the male attire in the clothes-press, noting the cut and quality. He sniffed quickly at the brandy decanter and two empty snifters on a wheeled cart by the bedside, then spun away to look at the entrance.

"The attacker left through the door – yes, here's a partial bloody fingerprint on the inside of the door handle." He pressed the constable back into the hallway as he perused the door and frame. "Obviously, the victim booked into Halliday's Private Hotel for secrecy. He was hiding. The closed curtains, the signs of long-term residency... "

Returning to the bed, Holmes gestured for Hopkins to help him fold the bedclothes back. Plucking up pillows, he ran his hand between the mattress and the headboard. A satisfied look flashed across his face. He withdrew his hand and revealed a gold wedding band in his palm. Hopkins glowed with excitement. "Mr. Holmes! That's wonderful! This must mean there was a woman involved."

"Possibly. The ring could have been lost during a struggle, or conceivably it has been there a long time, considering the nature of the hotel. Hmm. Curious motif engraved upon it. Bees." He examined it quickly with his glass before passing it to the Inspector.

Next to the hat-rack he brushed a finger through some white powder on the carpet, tasting it. "Dust. Stone particulate – yes. There was a visitor, a _known_ visitor, who hung up their coat. The particulate fell from it. A sculptor? Construction worker? The visit was recent – the maids haven't cleaned it yet. Constable Rance!" he snapped out, and the man snapped to attention. "Go to the desk clerk, and find out how often the rooms are cleaned and whether they employ mechanical maids or human."

"Human, sir!" said Constable Rance, pleased to offer some information. "The manager called me, said there had been a report from another guest complaining about 'excessive screaming', whatever _that_ means. When I arrived, there was a maid standing outside the door, a-wringin' her hands. The noise within was horrible, enough to frighten anyone out of their wits. The manager had to let me in with his key."

"What was her appearance?"

"Well, sir – she was a maid, is all. Dressed in black, white cap on the back of her head. No one important. She was pacin' up and down and -"

"Wringing her hands, you mentioned it. Did she enter the room?"

"No, sir. She was gone when I came back out to wire Scotland Yard."

Holmes gave him a disbelieving look. "And you say she was no one important. Please humour me, Constable Rance. Go and check _for certain _whether Halliday's employs human maids or automatons, and the uniforms used. Also, find out how many exits the hotel has, and which are monitored."

The constable pounded off down the stairs, and Holmes turned to Hopkins and I, vibrating with suppressed energy. "Some of the threads of the case are within our grasp, Hopkins. A Private Hotel! It is of the utmost importance that you convince them to open up their guest ledgers for us, though in general it is as though the seal of a Roman Catholic confessional protects what happens within these walls."

"We will work on that, sir. But – why did the man just let himself be cut up like that, Mr. Holmes? He didn't even struggle until the end. The attacker must have run then, afraid of the alarm being raised."

"Can you not guess? Some type of drug. It was likely administered in the brandy. Meanwhile, do you have some kind of envelope? I would like to collect some of that stone dust for analysis, and also there is a broken hair upon the drinks tray. I would like to examine and compare it to some others in our little library of criminals."

Hopkins admitted he didn't have an envelope. "Well, then!" cried Holmes, waving him out the door with a return of his imperious air. "Collect a few from the desk clerk, and do try to find Constable Rance. I expected him back by now. We will need another auto-cab to takes us to St. Thomas's." Hopkins nodded eagerly and left.

I seethed on Hopkins' behalf. Poor young man, being treated like some witless lackey. He obviously looked up to Holmes, but that was no reason for such treatment. I was ready to take Holmes to task again when he suddenly turned and grasped me by the forearm. My body tensed in surprise.

"Doctor Watson – I know that you have no reason to believe in me any more. But – I hope that you will trust me in this as I am about to trust you. _Do not cry out_, I implore you. It is essential. I am about to work – with _all_my resources, and if you feel you cannot bear to watch, then leave. Now. I will not blame you." There was no trace of apology in his tone, only a matter-of-fact seriousness.

My skin crawled at his cool touch, but I nodded jerkily. I understood him. This would be a test – of my control of my fear, and of Holmes' confidence in me. I would watch as he shared his secret self with me. I suddenly realized I did want Holmes to trust me. It was important – that _someone_ could believe in me, no matter what kind of creature I was. Holmes had said I was more human than machine, and with a lurch of my heart I saw a greater truth open up. If I was unnatural, then so was Holmes. _We were alike_, a quiet voice whispered_._But if Holmes felt that I was just as human with my clockwork centre, then that meant that Holmes was... ?

Holmes quickly closed the door, and with a quick jerk of his wrists tugged out his shirt from the back waist of his trousers, rumpling up his waistcoat. Eyes widening, I took a quick breath as Holmes'... appendages unfurled from where they had lain compressed and flattened around his waist. They stretched and extended, wavering, and he exhaled. His grey eyes took in my expression and shut briefly as though pained. "Doctor, sit before you collapse, please. You are not recovered yet, and I haven't much time." I sat on the slippery chaise-lounge with a thump and watched the outlandish sight, heart tripping more quickly.

Holmes sprang back to the besmirched bed, and all four of his appendages reached out and touched the bloody patches and the message briefly, patting lightly with their suckers. He licked his lips, as if tasting something salty. "All the same – the victim's blood," Holmes murmured to himself. He turned to the wheeled cart. He grasped something well-nigh invisible to my eye – the hair he had mentioned and held it up. The tip of a cephalopod arm touched it, skimming a cupped surface along the length. Again Holmes' mouth worked, this time in a grimace. "Mercury. So, works with mercury, or is exposed to it."

My mouth hung open slightly. "You… can taste? Through your… extra arms?"

"Yes, the taste receptors on the cups are extremely keen, much better at distinguishing tastes and chemical make-up than human tongues. The sensation I receive… is a bit odd, but clearly distinct," he absently.

He placed the hair carefully down on the tray, and with a quick flick removed the stopper from the brandy decanter. One tip thinned out and dipped into the brandy, swirling the golden liquid about. "Mm. Medium grade, no additives here. So... "

He picked up both snifters in his human hands, and an appendage touched one, skimming the rim and making it sing. "Only brandy. And the other?" The tip touched the lip cautiously, and tentatively brushed the bottom of the glass. He suddenly became quite still, eyes focused inwardly on whatever sensation he was receiving. With a violent twitch, the glass was knocked from his hand by his extra limb. It thumped on the carpeting without breaking and rolled away. I started up from the chaise, wincing at the pain from my surgery.

"Holmes, what is the matter?"

The face he turned to me was white. "Watson, it is the devil's trumpet. We -"

But whatever he was about to say was interrupted out by a knock. "Doctor Watson? Mr. Holmes? I have the envelopes, and the auto-cab is waiting downstairs. I say – why is the door locked?"

Holmes' eyes widened, and his appendages quickly swirled back and compressed themselves under his loosened shirt. Hopkins coughed. Holmes looked at me. "Delay him," he whispered and moved out of sight of the doorway, tucking his shirt in and restoring his appearance as quickly as possible.

My heart lurched. _Now. I could expose him, right now. But he trusts that I won't. He has confidence in my discretion, his reputation is in my hands. Could I… ? _

Holmes would never apologize for being what he was. I could see it was not in his nature. Instead, he had taken the first step towards creating a true partnership. His eyes caught mine, and I flushed. Surely that pang in the region of my clockwork was not real? But I understood, and made my decision.

I called out, "Just a moment, Inspector. The door is self-latching. Mr. Holmes was just – attempting to recreate the scene with me as a model." I opened the door, and before Inspector could even open his mouth, Holmes was shoving both of us down the stairs.

"Quickly. We must get to St. Thomas's. _Constable_!" he shouted. Rance appeared.

"Sir?"

"The hotel has only mechanical maids."

"How did you guess?"

"I never guess. Total anonymity! Guaranteed by the silence of automatons, the only living creatures in this establishment are the desk clerk and manager! I must tell you, Constable - you will not get far about your current position unless you use your head more! You met the attacker, and did nothing about it? Instead, you let yourself be blinded by the unimportant. The maid, Rance! You allowed her to escape!"

Constable Rance gaped incredulously, as we three hurried out to the cab.

"The simpleton." Holmes was bitter. "I tell you Doctor, Inspector – to have had this criminal within his grasp, and not realize it! The dull ox-like stolidity of the average police constable is a reassurance to criminals everywhere." He looked out the window in a black fury as the cab sped across the Thames towards St. Thomas's.

"What had this maid to do with this awful business, Holmes?" I asked. My shoulder and chest were aching horribly, but I forced the pain away.

"A Private Hotel – that is of key importance. Normally it is a safeguard for secrets. The lack of human interaction within means fewer servants to gossip. It is a place for politicians to meet, for clandestine meetings, for hiding. But a lack of servants means fewer people to note strangers in the hotel – its strength and weakness."

"I see. It did look like a house of assignation. That... ahem. _Menu_. But the maid... ?"

Holmes flicked his hand impatiently, while Hopkins looked as though he were ready to burst.

"Yes, a room for every taste. Pedestrian, bourgeois preferences, really. But our victim was using it to hide. He had an expected visitor, based on the white stone dust. But the maid – well, what could be more natural than ordering a meal, or having your room cleaned? Hence – the drinks tray. As Constable Rance has just proven, no one notices maid servants."

"But why would she return once the alarm had been raised?" queried Hopkins.

"The ring, man, the ring! With her abrupt departure, the door locked itself behind her. She went back for the ring, but as the constable was on the scene, she had no chance to retrieve it and so she left. At least we have the ring – if it was important enough to go back for, we can use the ring as bait."

"But Holmes!" I asked in some anxiety. "What about the victim? Why are we in such a tearing hurry?"

"One brandy on the tray was laced liberally with _datura stramonium_. Also called moon flower, Jimsonweed or thorn apple. Personally I like the more evocative name Devil's Trumpet. It is a member of the deadly nightshade family. So, our attacker may prove to be a murderess."

I sucked in a breath of dismay. The cab slowed, pulling up outside the hospital gates. "Pray God we are not too late."

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><p><strong>Private Hotel – <strong>Definition from the _Unexpurgated Baedecker's Guide to London_ – It is a common belief that Cromwellian England and Puritanism left indelible marks upon England's social fabric. The truth is, that modern England is a place of great sensuality, exoticism and mystery, that only pays lip-service to middle-class prudery and moralization. Hence, the emergence of Private Hotels – a place of assignation for lovers. Finding such establishments is difficult, however, as you will find no advertisements for them. Commonly, their existence is known and passed on through word of mouth through certain circles of society. A casual visitor to city may never find one, unless he or she has the correct contacts. Should you gain such access, be warned that you will pay a high price – such places are staffed mainly by automatons. Their silence is guaranteed, but the purchase and maintenance of so many mechanical beings means your time in a Private Hotel will be expensive. For the patrons of Private Hotels, this is no object. It is reassuring that the secrecy and exorbitant price ensures that only a better class of people can gain entrance...

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><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

Well, I will not apologize for the lack of tentacle porn thus far in the story. Firstly, it would be octopus arm porn, not tentacle. Secondly, since I couldn't write a darkfic to save my life, I'd much rather not break Watson's mind and fragile health completely. Remember – Holmes wants a partner, not a seme/uke relationship! They both have ISSUES to work out, however.

This chapter marks the return to my personal twisted version of Study in Scarlet, and actual detecting! Huzzah, huzzah.

**Grammar note: **St. Thomas's Hospital – the use of St. Thomas' as the possessive is recent and wouldn't have been used in Victorian England. English grammar - it's the pits.


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